I was sitting on the deck
wading through the sludge and swamp
of what I have been—
when a cocky flew overhead
and tore through the melancholy of my thinking.
Sky bogans my friend Joel calls them:
burning rubber across the pristine blue,
flipping the finger at sweetest birdsong,
dive bombing like disaffected youth
at the local swimming pool.
‘Get you hand off it!’
she screeches at me from above.
Ha!
Too bloody right!