“I once loved a hobo in the park.”

This was my friend’s mum talking, her papery face

suddenly a lantern. I kept prattling

as if she’d said something ordinary, something

not quite so aligned with my own predicament.

A hobo in the park – my inner tape recorder

got it, even if my drunk-mind didn’t.

Her eyes were the same blue as a Sydney summer,

the same eyes that once treasured society’s trash.

The stupidity of wisdom. I told my lover

once: “You’ll end up like one of those guys in the park

you know, the ones who yell at nothing and throw

bottles at people.” We were in my car, driving

across the Harbour Bridge. “I don’t care!” he said,

a fresh burst of spittle coating his week-old t-shirt

like air freshener, the cheap kind that’s labelled ‘Alpine’

in black letters, and smells even worse than shit.

It was 11:30 by the time we made it to his office,

which is either shockingly late or “Just in time

for lunch!” depending on whether your half-filled glass

contains vodka. At some point I suppose

I’ll have to stop finding him hysterical

or I’ll end up with the surname ‘Jones’

and a bedroom with a leafy vista.

I know. But my friend’s mum doesn’t lecture

because she knows the wilfulness of love,

the hurricane that howls in from nowhere,

from stillness to gale force in a breath.

Transient as we all are; voyeurs in a dream.