part 22 of Common People
On Sunday afternoon we walk the eastern corridor
On our backs the sun desert-dry and burning
On the air the smell of sausages barbequing
On our feet hot rubber thongs chafing
On the footpath the rust-coloured stains, from borewater sprinklers long since turned off by order of the water conservation authority at risk of a thousand dollar fine, the feathered cracks widening, run with ants, and an inscription
Miff Loves Gary, 2001-forever.
On Sunday afternoon we walk the western suburbs
On our backs the leaf-mottled sun and shade cooling
On the air the smell of haloumi grilling
On our feet the imperial leather slides with insoles for posture supporting
On the verge the san pell comes out like a fan, lawn lush with secure belief, a child born here, watered here, rooted here, will never know more than this, and a sign
Registered Lawn, Please Stay Off.
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