The European Manner of Crossing Legs

By and | 1 July 2009

The money spider crosses a hand.
You shut the door and open up
the secret drawer, so hefty
and loud your knees pop. We're
beginning our descent into barbarism:
sorry, it's conclusive
since the windows filled with milk
and the floor with blood and honey.

Only two to go then one more, then
we begin our evolutionary strategy in earnest.
Look up and smile; the coffee drinks the cup
and fathers eat their leftovers unbidden.
We like these airy breakfasts, anti-gravity service
puts me in the circus-mood
mentioned in the guide. White clowns in the air out
on parole. We must wear our ornamental
blinkers for landing.

Skirts turn Mondrian. Complimentary?
Yes, it's all free–so long as you can say
“pop it in Mum's bag,” she prising
lead shingles off a roof. Our dentist

works as a baggage-monkey now, inciting every
passenger to their teeth. But smile,
this is a road someone lives on–and that's
why we're here on this national holiday:
to celebrate how ducks move and the big
noise they make! enjoining us to attend more closely
to pirate, treasure, flag and farm
equipment plowing us untimely under
the clues, the slopes.

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