Type
Poetry

Holiday pattern

I drive the boat to the shack and do nothing
like knitting a Hole in the buffet table
and other Tasks that need mismanaging
I wake up five hours later for a tootle
to find Icecream in the fishtank and the phone ringing
it’s a Mobile but i prefer not to be too intimate
with Objects that last less than a teatowel
there might be an Earthquake says an automated
Voice. later the clock will fall into the stew
and die There: see what i mean? friends
are driving up on Saturday in their stillwagon
which is what I call a ute with dogs in the back
I’m a quite successful tv
Writer. ivy has encroached the patio
in the Water i like to think i’m a river sponge
or a security Gate from a submerged city
That would once have never let anything without
Feet through. when my friends arrive
I’ll want to read, but for now the books
are piled on the Sand, in a little borderland
between Eel and snake country. by the fire
I try to invent postcolonial
Chess, but the fire’s no help, for all the grapes
and olive Pits i throw it. i nearly
caught a Bat in my teeth earlier
not for trying. I let the sound of
the Crickets in, and with some rubberbands
and Bamboo, i make a chocolate
Frog racetrack. the slowest
I encourage by biting bits off
to make Them lighter, or tape cocktail
australian Flags to their backs, to give them flight
and Pride. when i wake with my head on the finish
Line, i have a vision of cockroaches marching
towards my open Mouth. i bare my teeth
hoping to seem an unwelcome peg Bucket

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Michael Farrell’s books include I Love Poetry, Cocky’s Joy and Writing Australian Unsettlement: Modes of Poetic Invention 1796–1945. He edits Flash Cove (flashcovemag@gmail.com).

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