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Sunday, May 08, 2016

poem - a lazy Sunday first draft


FLOTSOM

 

Our old dog scratches her nose

on the carpet — an asana –
this is her house more

than ever as the first heavy

rains of winter fall in late

autumn. We sit before the fire

two old lovers resting between

domestic chores. Passion is on

TV now, and the politicians are

playing their first quarter. A news

helicopter tracks the PM’s car

to Government House as

our old Cavoodle scratches on,

a giant hairy worm wriggling

on the faux Oriental rug, layers

of meaning washing up

like syntax on the high tideline.




 

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