Nothings changed

Small round hard stones click

under my heels,

seeding grasses thrust

bearded seeds

into trouser cuffs, cans,

trodden on, crunch

in tall, purple-flowering,

amiable weeds

District Six.

No board says it is:

but my feet know,

and my hands,

and the skin about my bones,

and the soft labouring of my lungs,

and the hot, white, inwards turning

anger of my eyes.

Brash with glass,

name flaring like a flag,

it squats

in the grass and weeds,

incipient Port Jackson trees:

new, up-market, haute cuisine,

guard at the gatepost,

whites only inn.

No sign says it is:

but we know where we belong.

I press my nose

to the clear panes, know,

before I see them, there will be

crushed ice white glass,

linen falls,

the single rose.

Down the road,

working man’s cafe sells

bunny chows.

Take it with you, eat

it at a plastic table’s top,

wipe your fingers on your jeans,

spit a little on the floor:

it’s in the bone.

I back from the

glass,

boy again,

leaving small mean O

of small mean mouth.

Hands burn

for a stone, a bomb,

to shiver down the glass.

Nothing’s changed.

Advertisements
  1. No trackbacks yet.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: