Sport 40: 2012
This scene, I tell you, is full of cinematic promise—
look at the fat waitress eating peanuts behind the bar.
And the lighting—so dull it is almost damp.
But how do I talk to you, now that you’re dead?
The great muck of not-knowing gurgles at the back
of my throat, coming up amalgam, like a pine veneer.
Dear table, chair, cheap food, beer—what company
can you bring? No, correction. Dear ghost-of-you,
dear friend, who cannot eat, speak, sleep, or do—
join me, while I scrape my way across this plate.
Indulge me with stories of what it might be like.
Let me imagine, just for this meal, that you might be real.
Sometimes I forget the three, four, ﬁve
of the things that have been. So I go back
over it, to keep the order alive.
Remember that yellow house on the gravel drive,
our castle-on-the-hill cum weatherboard-shack?
Sometimes I forget the three, four, ﬁve.
I remember my sister wanting some Levis
and the Christmas that Mum gave us a kayak.
That was when Granddad was still alive.
There was that shed with the vacant beehive,
where Dad built a tree-house like a bivouac.
But really, I’ve forgotten the three, four, ﬁve.
I remember walking through the farm, and I’ve
come to thinking that was with a knapsack—
to kill the weeds but keep the grass alive.
When it was time for me to learn how to drive
I asked how I’d know which gear came next.
It’s difﬁcult to keep the order alive
when I get confused with three, four, ﬁve.