for Mal Morgan
I brought in your newspaper at 2 o’clock,

it was under a bush, still wet with morning; you don’t bother

with some things, Mal, but how do you decide which ones?
I mean, you play Solitaire on your computer, it was on the screen

when I came in; electronic card games,

do you still have time for them, or is it me, not you, who’s changed?
Albania, you think men can be worse than animals,

that they don’t murder, a dog will lie, exposing its jugular vein

rather than fight and be killed.
And you duck out for just one fag in hours;

why didn’t you empty a packet while we sat, why conserve it;

I’ve sometimes thought, if I was dying, I’d Kahlua my Corn Flakes each

morning.
Lines spring into your mind, miniature kangaroos,

first lines, last lines, or feelings, like wombats,

your poems start as these sometimes.
Love-making is the best time, only making a poem

can compete, you say, that headache as it requires to be born,

kneading, looking for a way out through your skull.
All your stories, your opinions, the million things you know

will soon be blown towards the moon; the sound

of wind over sand, wind over stone.
Empty wine bottles, coffee, books amongst the barbells

I notice as I walk to your toilet. The afternoon

eaten away as we sat, Mal, gone,
the afternoon, the clouds, the sun, the air.