Sport 29: Spring 2002
Night. Rain frisks the window.
His Glock's as hard and fat
as a Coca-Cola bottle.
He drives to the airport to buy
a box of Durex Fetherlites,
a yellow baseball cap.
The Mazda's awash
with table knives, screwdrivers,
Rosicrucian pamphlets, flying manuals.
His foods are soups
and chocolatey desserts
straight from the can or punnet.
He works with blades and glues,
crude little stumpy little brushes,
kiddies' printing kits.
The papers he creates
by the light of a Hanimex lamp
are handsome and fishy.
Displaying an illuminated glyph
freezer-bright and whitely cruciform,
the ethnic church across the road
blazes like a dairy.
Keen to peddle grand, Egyptian clocks,
bird-headed indigents go door to door
but captious things enamelled and ornate
are not our cup of tea.
The light-fingered darkness
triggers car alarms.
Like modern families the world over,
we fail to believe in our own beliefs.
It's resinous, knotty …
and Pine Motel is where
we spend the odd weekend.
Biding its rotten time,
historic Crater Lake
exudes an eggy pong.
Geyser Motors closed for good last year.
When night descends, we stroll down to the shore,
there to reacquaint ourselves with these:
clopping hulls, buzzing sheets,
the pilgrims and their adamant candles.
beatifies bin Laden.
America puts on
a futuristic mantle
and laser-guided bombs.
where nothing is.
As deserts strobe
Dan Rather's office.
smooth machines that glow
like moons of chrome …
which it then hunts down