Sun-drunk home detention

A hot new district at the light rail’s end
Gungahlin—the white man’s house
uniform white houses like feta
crumbled on pepper concrete
salty,
like the sweat of children walking to school
parched mouths
white umbrellas catching sun rays
and non-existent rain.

Summer grocery shop—
celery droops its eyelids as we walk home
home,
where aircons drain precious pennies
from peeling pink hands
hands,
searching for water in the pool of gin
warm burns seep through our bodies
drunk on the sun.

In sun-drunk home detention
we watch heat radiate from the ground like gas
stoves cooking air
no bushfires burn on streets devoid of trees
yet heat strokes set neighbourhoods alight
flameless burns paint cremated ashes
across the concrete, pepper on pepper
enough to make Canberra cry if the city
opened its eyes.

Madras 

A one-way street
in the inner city,
nestled between the roars of
daily happenings, decisions and
ideas.
Hidden from the rumbles of
national politics and
international disputes,
Madras wears stripes
of red
and black.It’s still early, but there’s
a modest bustling of motorists,
stretching across the heart
of the city,
racing to beat the morning rush.
Cars crowd the narrow lane,
spitting toxic fumes
with every drift across the asphalt,
waiting,
helplessly,
for new road signs to
divert
the traffic.In their cars,
they hear the distant hum
of a puzzled mind,
the stutters and echoes,
mad swerves across the centre line.
They see pedestrians standing
by the white chairs,
looking out across the Avon,
walking across the
crooked
pavement
holding folded maps,
stripes and checks.They watch the
cautious movement of
hard hat helmets,
bobbing down Manchester.
They watch the
metronome beats of
passing time –
The Piano on Armagh.But here,
on this one-way street,
I am lost, too shy
to take one step further,
I am alone, stuck……between
two road ……cones,
in a parking lot
on Madras.

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