Not all my poems are more impressive
than a concert pianist botching Ba-Ba Black Sheep,
but you saw the opals amongst the offal.
You inspired me,
like bobbing rose mosaics on sunrise lacquered lakes.
Later, you didn’t care for my poetry.
You loathed it, like cave diving alone
with a sympathy inspiring L plate to protect you
from spiny things that swallow submarines like medication.
Road train dragster test drivers are more impressed
with the horse power of merry go rounds
than you were to discover I’d written to you.
The Broughton Street Mirage was real,
our friendship had never frayed.
You’d been skating over black ice,
on the jammed toll way of life;
too busy balancing to reach for a Biro.