on live tv—

helicopters out at sea before dawn

searchlights are yellow knives

stabbing into a filthy darkness
—sticking your head outside

from upstairs bathroom window

so strangely humid for Perth, I imagine a clammy feel

to every neck

being kissed right now
—looking east

huge, grey modesty curtains drawn across distant suburbs

cockatoos (dubious forecasters)

clearing out in scrappy lines of screeching black

from one bunch of trees to another 
—while driving to get

to where you’d rather

not have to be going—

confused by the hunt for the demister button

a view of storm driven fairways

where golf being played by stoics
after a tight park at The Mount Hospital

reading your wrist indicates

that you must wait
bounce down’s timed for eleven sharp

is what you’ve been told 
just going by as you get out of the car

…lower half of a body

the set of legs

underneath an umbrella

feet hobbling over a drain choked by soaked poplar leaves

another poor bastard, you guess, who’s finding it tough getting old
feeling a need

to pre-empt an assumption of doom…
you turn to face hospital stairs

and sigh

they know what they’re doing

she’ll be right as rain

on the way to the toilet, on repeat

‘They know what they’re doing; she’ll be right as rain’