After all the sap and pap of rap,
the hype in the pipe, the flowing tap
dripping strips of blitz, the ham
of slam, dull thud of repetition...
Am I being ungenerous? This old man
doesn't generate those inner dialogues
racing with syncopated syllables,
nor think to peachy preach gelastic,
avast at the ghastly, burst out bombastic.
Just listen to the glisten of enlightenment;
enthusiasm chasm-spasm;
get washed in the flood of the slam!
But I lack caged haze to rend,
or render back to sender in my blender,
a smoothie for the outrage of gender,
race and poverty - to fortify, and damn,
to charm the alarm and, thank you ma'am,
to set us all free - such well-meanings meant.
I sigh and move a cushion;
I'm lacking inspiration,
can't drink this reparation.
Well, we're driving back and nearly home,
gravel grovelling beneath our tires,
when, profile, in the beam
a possum by red gum trunk
seeming on stalks of toes, trots
up the bole, winding bushy tail
around tree-girth, a stealthy spiral
of floodlit grace, volumed fur
swaying dreamy as best CGI,
in the Perry Bridge wind -
but caught at the last, as if
its little will delaying the inevitable
ran out of double-take escape,
gaze framed in the fork
of the gum trunk, fixed on the light
as if it had wings would fly
to Wreckit immolation as much
as any fabled soul in NDE
feels cruelly tempted...
We turned down the beam,
broke the hypnotism.
Possum blinked and vanished.
A dark flick, licking along a branch,
became shadow ply
restless wind stirs solicitously
as a rookie cook might whirlpool soup.
