And now for something gushy

Outside the window,

lorikeets screech and cry,
like spectators at a cockfight
in a Saigon backstreet bar.

Two houses down,
someone is ripcording and swearing
a dying mower into
coughing cutthroat life.

The neighbour’s TV talks of elections, economies, the want of leadership
in trying times
and other things that don’t exist.

In the next room,
my daughter sings of incy wincy spiders,
and shining stars.

The only part of this morning
that wakes quietly,

perfectly,

and true.

 

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