Nextdoor Neighbour Please Come In

In the latest Buick sedan,
his father’s car,
parked in the garage,
the boy nextdoor (undressed)
showed his jewels
to Shirl and me.

But I had brothers,
was not impressed,
went outside to play
a skipping game
till my mother’s voice
called me home
for tea.

– 80 –

Death and the Maidens

They have come from afar
for the funeral—an uncle too young
to have won their care—
are harboured here
in their grandparents’ house
in the upstairs lounge, where
they lie surrounded by Royal Doulton,
the gold of Meissen, the red
and gold of Royal Worcester
in elegant walnut cases.

They occupy the territory,
camped out in their sleeping-bags,
read their childhood comics
found in a box.

They make swift forays to the kitchen,
rise again like eagles up the stairs
bearing toast and Vegemite and tea,
for three.

They flit long-legged past
the room where the mourners are,
make a few polite remarks
to their elders who answer the phone,
the frequent door, embrace the flowers
that come, the summer flowers,
and grieve.

At the Requiem they wear
their dresses, long and black—
black is fashionable this year—
they hide under their amazing hair
and tall and gentle have an air
of newfound melancholy.