The old and then the new, like a skin half shed, the year of the snake, the water snake, the snake of water, the hammer and the hold. Certainly not as brutal as John Betjeman, but then again, I don’t know that I’d spare the bald young clerks, either.
Milton
you are all work and no
play it by ear my dear
all marry well and retire
no fire in the belly.
lycra-sprayed bodies bounce
along your bikeway
hurtling in some
sick commitment
to rock hard abs or the arsey new year
or just getting
the fuck out
of the office cul de
sac arrangement.
on Fridays the air
fogs with yeasty exhale and
I sign off my emails
XXXX
“that’s kisses
in a Queensland way”, I say.
I’m underneath
your faux-Eiffel Tower
getting a fucking eyeful
of the awful
screw you – I hate you – Milton,
we’ve been working
together too long.
This is paradise lost
to the stones
the mind the trees
the river running
the running river
the feast and the famine
the flood. Oh fuck. The flood.
I’m really sorry
for all that shit –
see you at the office Monday.
eleanor j jackson 