Poems
Brief Encounter
Never trust a poet;
his recitations transport you
to places no steam engine can;
while the fog of things
he never quite utters,
but offer in images,
alliteration, adjectives and atmosphere
swirl around you,
like candyfloss.
Deliciously, he starts to satisfy you
that passion and poetry are, like old movies,
better in monochrome.
Then he drinks with you,
telling you his saddest story,
certain it mirrors your own.
You await some connection,
but each stanza he discloses
only delays you more.
Too soon, he kisses you,
then walks away, a distant fluttering
of fingers, a hazy adieux.
Tomorrow, you'll return to your rendezvous.
You'll await the poet's tender verses,
but they'll never come.
No, never trust a poet;
one kiss is all he needs
to break your heart.
Tips on Leaving Wellington
Whisper your farewells
to the southerly,
and to the school-boy
playing hooky, dreaming
as he ogles your legs,
and to the grey-faced drifter
who lugs his life each day
through Lambton and Willis
predictable as winter fog,
and to the guy with a maniac's eyes
whose cuff (Patrick Bateman-style
Armani suit) brushes lightly against you;
you're on the edge
of telling everyone,
Au revoir, haere ra, see ya.
Board the five-dollar flyer
and let it wing you
through the Pirie Street underpass,
dark and narrow as an escape chute.
And when you make it out
to Lyall Bay, skim through
the pages of something suitable -
Ricketts' How to Live Elsewhere,
Bland's Sorry, I'm a Stranger Here Myself -
whilst you marvel at the moon-white crest,
the single surfer and the arc taken
around the rim of the runway
just as NZ420 takes off overhead.
Don't scream
if they cancel your flight.
The hours you waste
watching plane after plane
leave you behind
whilst you wait to depart,
allow you to remember
you're in the land
of No Worries now.
The Other Woman's Car
It's something sporty
(like you've always wanted),
kakariki/green as a grass-snake
plenty of torque,
starts up like a siren,
and it's automatic
judging by the speed
with which she pulls you away.
She'll never have a breakdown,
she can promise you that.
Unlike me,
she'll go forever
on a thimbleful of fuel.
And as she does so,
you stare back at me,
momentarily, through her
smoky electric-windows.
I'm comforted
at seeing you trapped
and looking like
you're not enjoying it.
In the hour you're absent,
I avoid the grapple and thrust
of imagining
the sculpted contours of
her bodywork;
your fingers toying with
her instrumentation,
glove box and cup-holders;
the two of you squeezed tightly
into low, leather seats;
and so forth.
That way,
when you return, smiling
and in the driver's seat,
I can seem easygoing
as I ask you
when it'll be my turn
to take you for a ride.