Pointing the Bone at Myself

It’s a dried out bone from last night’s dinner, mortal to the touch. I hold it and stand still to daydream before throwing it in the bin. The cat is not allowed chicken bones. She also is mortal and may choke on a bone fragment. Whereas I point the bone at myself, then the bin, and think of its journey – from chookyard to Refuse Disposal Centre. The simple things in life are all complicated … From father’s trip home from war in New Guinea to my final trip to Karrakatta Cemetery, who knows when. My bones will write a scribbled note, broken here and there like an old man’s handwriting, and saying, But once he stood and walked upon the earth. And fell. Off his bike, down a cliff, a night club’s steep stairs, Australia’s backyard behind a shearer’s shed outside of Mount Magnet. And stood again each time to finally fall down and stay down here, cat sleeping in his chair at home.