Suburban mums at Highpoint Shopping Centre (highlights in hair, talons on hands)

remind me of white lion statues worn as jewellery on brick McMansions;

I can hear the hose watering the concrete driveway from my childhood.

I wanna tape myself to the wall, like a t-shirt on display—2D, empty, not embodied yet—

for everyone to look at and ask ‘Ooh, how much for this one?’.
One line circulates each time it resonates:

more people bought their seventh home than those buying their first.

Ok, not true-true; proportions a little blown out,

like an unoccupied

high-rise.

I cackle at my 26 y/o brother after he buys his second house.

Funny like wog boy had no option but to join the family business in high school.

Cinder-blocked between:

funny like wog boy had no other choice but to work hard for good money.

Truth Coming Out of Her Well (1896), but broke.

The gate to his newly purchased property reads:

FUCK OFF C*NT

in sparkly, silver graff.

But the command is owner-facing, onto the property and upside-down. 
Me, a Don’s gold pinky ring

sitting next to my didi front row at my cousin’s wedding

looking down upon a man, prayerlike

removing his own coat to lay across my grandfather’s lap.

This kind of mafioso exclusivity is not reserved for the Italians

but The Sopranos makes my memory yolky

so much so

I consider buying a $2000 plinth to rest my TV on while on JobSeeker.
On the outer suburbs of wealth are critically underpaid workmates who e-mail each other:

Don’t worry! No one’s having as bad a day as Lindsay Lohan’s net worth!