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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