ways to travel

It was on the tram, after
The awkward, standing around
On the concrete verandah
Behind the centre
With a time limit on
And a dire need to reassemble
Your disintegrating ruby-red string
Sling-over-your-shoulder
Wrap-around-your-smooth-brown-back
Bag, and
My hesitating, frustrating
Perched and preparing flight
On my beloved bike
That doesn’t make me feel
Uncomfortable or superfluous
Very much at all
Really

That
Upon looking out the windows
Through the rushing to work
Fifteen-minutes-to-get-there glare
Opposite a man
Grey-clad and frail
Smelling stale and
Twisting his legs
Like a stomach ache
One around the other
With a sticky, fat and blistered
Bottom lip
Eyes like slits and moaning
Very softly, and my wondering
If I could ever summon enough love
To kiss a face
Like his

That
I managed to interrupt
The persistent pop song riff
That was
Impolitely interrupting my
Route 96 speculation
About that which
I’d seen the night before:

Her smooth hard skull and
Cream white skin
In
A floral shift dress of the
Palest pink with
Tiny, tight blooms
Roving the room with
Sandals over flowing pants
- Wide and soft

With her back to the door and your
Naked feet
Smiling with wide, white
Very precise teeth
Chatting pleasantly, palms
Concealed in fists, declining
Politely your offer of
Coffee rock candy bits;

And
You in the car on the long drive home
Stopping for sugar at the seven eleven
Muttering about your liver
Qi, as we
Endeavoured to crawl our way
Through endless red-light brake aisles,
You, all the while
Using the cunt-word in your most
Practised yobbo tone
Indifferent to sleeping alone, not
Noticing the city-scrapers, only
Feeling the brunt of the boot-mark
(Sandal shaped)
Of the afternoon’s
Excruciating, infuriating
Kick in the face

I realised half-defeated and
Half-relieved, that with
All this talk of revenge and silence, her
Never addressing you
Never drinking your tea
Nor looking at you while maintaining
Immaculately transparent
Poise, apparently at ease

That
It’s got nothing to do with me and
Walking along a 38 degree meltdown
Wind-blown bitumen street
Heading towards an eight hour
Wash-dry-fold samahdi
How do I feel about doing
Other people’s laundry?
How do I feel about the two of you?
Ineffectual, actually, and
Ill at ease, because I’m
Old enough to know that love is
Slow to end or change...
And so in this tedious oven-day heat
I await either stalemate or epiphany
And hope - resigned and feverish -
For rain.