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Sport 38: Winter 2010

I'll never get a poem from this neighbourhood

page 210

I'll never get a poem from this neighbourhood

Discarded sandals on doorstep & verandah say
otherwise, something so Sunday in their attitude

lying where cast, the jubilance of being without feet.
I make a mental note, cross the park and forget

to check the window where once I saw a woman's
head parallel an ironing board, the flash of metal

tongue licking straight brunette falls. I pause at the
former butcher's old glass door, islands of paint thinned

by the strain of being so looked upon by would-be poets.

Yearling beef
sides          hinds
fores          butts

I thought of your line on my walk sighs Alice,
sardonic as a bittern, as I follow her up humid streets.

It's my new criteria for renting a house. And right then
I sight it, crackling and clapping its wings, the poem.