photo: Julian Hare
Months after the Lilac Ball
now a faded memory
jacarandas fling down
woody castanets
strewn on dog-shitted
earth.
Our conversation is coloured
in patches of green and brown.
Did you see that man?
What this one should do.
I can’t believe that.
The sky answers in gusts of her own.
Unlike his free-wheeling colleagues
whose moves splatter the fields
Ajax is tethered
and as we circumscribe
sports parameters marked in chalk
now the domain of dogs and their servants
he whimpers and strains.
A fire flares, dark forms , a flash of red tracksuit top
A bergie encampment is tucked
politely on a bank
Longer grass denotes the border
between dogwalkers who have strayed
from their televisions
to sling balls on long whips
to a small people hunkered down
under the sky
An exercise bike, white, upright and trim
pokes up from the grass.
On it the woman wearing red
pedalling away going exactly nowhere.
The front door closes behind us
Ajax’s claws scratch on the floor
Should we cook the mince
or is it last night’s veggies?
What about chicken?
What’s on the box?