The little lady in Recovery Room

had a gouty great toe – was nasty

with ascending infection.

Her foot was angry, but

she seethed
about Christmas

spent with her daughter.

‘A bogan,’ she said.

‘It was a bogan Christmas.’

Disapproval drew her lips
tight   into a purse.

She spoke in bursts

and short sentences.

I did not have to pry

the purse open to hear
the rest of her family

no longer ate meat

but were not content

to stay vegetarians.

‘They’ve all become
bogans,’ she said –

‘No suet pudding.

No custard.

No cream.

No brandy butter.
It was chickpea chaff

–organic –

and soy something

for dessert.’

Thin smile then –
an expression too mean

to meet her eyes.

‘Soy something

doesn’t go with booze –

I kept the bottle for myself.’