A DRUNK KIWI LOOKS AT BRISBANE
City
you are
a nouveau riche grass widow
haemorrhaging
magenta bougainvillea
in
a loud subtropical Cretaceous-print sarong,
wearing
too much coral-pink lipstick,
cackling
like a crow,
crassly
acquisitive as a probing dirty-white ibis, but
amongst
your cheap glamour and bling
I
see your grandmother’s broach
and
antique engagement ring.
City
of glass and honey-coloured sandstone,
part
Petra, part Houston, part Angkor Wat.
You’re
doing it and you know you’re doing it.
insouciant,
you don’t care that I know you know
as
the all-seeing sun turns the Brisbane River
into
a winding mirror of polished copper,
blinding
me to your flaws.
Thongs
and shorts are formal wear
and
the sartorial niceties
remain
unobserved,
but
fashion doesn’t get things done.
Brisbane,
I see you over my Sav Blanc,
languidly
rolling up your burly sleeves.
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