Saturday, 28 August 2010

Sometimes on Saturdays

Jen nearly found perspective
in the bottom of her handbag
as she rummaged for cab fare
on a Saturday night
of drizzling rain
and empty breezers

Nestled between the tampons
and the I phone with the dodgy software
that constantly
gave a must- restart- app message

she paid the Cabbie
too much
and he made no attempt to
correct the situation
speeding away
in a cough of smoke
the exhaust
hacking out its metallic death rattle

His tag said Sayid
but every one called him Sam
because here
in Aus
no one gets your name right
and no one cares who
you are

cruised away from the long legged girl
who could not add
each dollar extra
mentally saved
hidden in the sock draw
in his tiny flat
in Footscray

Sam kept names
secretly embossed
into his tongue

on the broken bed
which lent alarmingly towards
the left
he would recite them to himself
the sound of his neighbors fighting
washing over and beyond
not catching on his skin
not sinking into
the litany of his whispered chant

Sam still saw his sun
when he closed his eyes

low slung and heavy
hovering over the Nile
baking the sand
baking the backs of his hands
deep shades of goodbye

His family
always waiting
for the chanted names
to find them
and bring them to him

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