Deer Park in Melbourne’s outer west, 1990
Mediterranean columns against brown brick. Kids squabble

about whose turn it is to hide in their game. Careful gardens. 
Pebbled strips. A terracotta-skinned girl carrying colour

pencils in a Barbie case, skipping past the cream, closed 
lids of roller shutters. Low powerlines. A disruption

of gumtrees. The slanted, round scribbles of thirteen-
year-old romance on the bus stop. A cross atop plain brick,

interrupted by stained glass. An unspoken grudge. A lined,
slow-moving lady in black clutches her Sunday missal

and envelope of coins, a whiff of provolone and bleach 
on her fingers. Neat, creased shoes. Broken glass. Holding

a rosary, a parishioner spits on the steps. Old men gather
like seagulls at the shopping centre bench, avoiding their wives’

gossip and wiped-down kitchens. They talk of the rising price 
of fruit and the replacement of the parish priest. A measured

greeting at the crossing. Flowers tied to a pole. Twitchy kids 
leave their marks using souped up cars like paint brushes,

in the earliest part of the morning when the roads are clear.