I lived in the library
for there was
the library itself,
a child out the front
and I did not look up.
I did not want to visit. Sundays driven through
with boredom; we hurtled across the Wairarapa.
My father drove as fast as he could
his hat pulled low
overtook
a cattle truck a petrol tanker a train
on the curve between the bridges –
one hand held the matchbox
the other struck the light –
undercover of smoke
in the back seat of the Zodiac
our guns loose in our hands
my mother in her helmet
of hairspray; we shot through
the Gorge and out to Palmerston North
stitched in stiff, pressed
my hands folded in my lap.
Going home, the Gorge rinsed
us out, the dark bricked eye
of the railway tunnel.