A poem
The smell of wet mulch
on your afternoon run;
the rain stained you
wondrous
one rainbow-reflected
moment,
but nobody saw.
You follow the road
as you follow aromas
of other people’s dinners,
the cawing of lordly cockatoos,
and the scratching of
car brakes;
follow the words
in your head,
and the physical
isn’t as painful;
no need to think or pine
or mind; only
catch all the drops on
the points of the leaves,
catch your breath!
Through the front door,
and everyone wanting
to tell you of things that
in days will not
matter –
the worry, the chatter,
the anxious weeping
is endless,
and how are you meant
to respond when
you’ve just now uncovered
some secret philosophy,
half-formed and hazy,
that hangs in the suburbs,
the midge-clouded
creek?
Through the front door,
but you’re only at home –
oh, the horror –
in front of a screen
or unseen as
you lope through
the gum trees,
or settle,
book-bound in the dark
because the arms
that you need
are not
here.