My Other reminds me of a Viking prince
piloting a hot air balloon
in Central Desert cumulus.
Currency-lad come good,
no need to spend his rent on a nicked Beemer.
His old mates take the prize for mayhem.
I see him barefoot in the weekend market,
selling silver charms, and does it charmingly.
In lordiness he has taken up a Device.
Though it burns his fingers he can’t give up.
Sleepless all night he sleeps post noon
in a director’s fold-up chair
in a quiet style that impresses everyone, but
on waking nothing’s guaranteed.
In a re-make of Ned Kelly.
Military talents? The portraitist finds
an Irish lilt in our genes, in his grey blue eyes.
He slaves hard for a rest on Sunday.
A statistic diversity, a fishing rod
with a Kelpie on long term love, slathering
for a chase a bone a biscuit.
Winters he works another 50 mutts for cash
in some western desert town
fond of trailing afterthoughts.
Post-human? Maybe. My little bro
chewing a chip or an apple
5 thousand feet in the air.
His mother held him a long while, and turned the key.
Fluent as a green leaf in a local forest,
total strangers embrace him in the park.
in his garden, and within it sky-gardens of recall.
He sees a beach down there in Lake Eyre
invented just for him.
He will never grow sad, even without me.
He prefers to laugh. He finds it easy.
1 May 2018