Nothing is more plain than this carport.
Not the rough grass not the clothesline where
your knickers, tea towels and two sheets droop,
not the cat asleep on concrete. When
she stands her thin gut hangs from her spine.
Sun warms her. There’s your green wooden chair
with one flattened cushion. The upturned
apple box for your smokes, your novel,
a green plastic lighter, your bottle
of orangeade, your smokes. Here’s where you
watch the sky, the wooded hill. Behind
it a plane to Oz leaves its trail. There’s
the street where walkers stride. Kids on skateboards.
Sometimes you wonder what the point is.
Why the poor have no luxuries, but
mean-mouthed Don Brash, and don’t get
me started on that Winston Peters.
Also Helen Clark, now she gets down
to the workers.