waking with the self (still)
an unanswered alarm raucous
with news of our golden athletes sunk
‘neath a mountain of dumped bikeshares,
and promise of a thorough inquiry
as if that could evince some sense that
the whole thing wasn’t a complete cock-up
and that time isn’t a flat black disk
and that we aren’t flies dancing
an afternoon already.
‘And why is it any business of yours?’ my mother asks.
Even though she’s been dead these dozen years,
while I have grown old myself, still she corrects
drinking that old cracked cup.
Image: Coogee beach, NSW, night, c. 1929, Sam Hood (photographer)
– State Library of New South Wales (I have no idea what they were up to).