With the jewel bag jingle of a rain stick,
Tinkerbells cricket their crystal flints
inside the fluorescent bulbs. It’s righteous
how night and day mother each other.
From the carport see the slow-song
lawn-pines sway. Each pair
of fluorescents just newlywed
swans racked up in cryogenic
aluminum crypts. Fluorescents tripped
into blare so passersby can admire
our sparkling rides. Yes, carports are open
to the air, but why say open if they can’t shut?
As she boarded the bus to write a test
she wanted to fail, my daughter thought
it odd his Saab had crept from its hutch.
Three months after his mom had mysteriously
stopped making his lunch, the ginger kid from
a distant cul-de-sac pointed at our neighbour.
In the carport a lawnchair was upset
beneath a noose, our neighbour’s foot
reached like a tongue for a missing tooth.
We didn’t know the swans had thawed.
And forgiveness, the ginger was known
to say, is not their forté.
1 December 2014