To Point Chevalier or Even Further
Off to seek our fortunes in the City,
Point Chevalier no less.
Lions at night
coughed in the Zoo, and outlandish screamings.
Father slept badly.
From house to house,
rooms here, a whole bungalow there,
a threesome of country mice we huddled
towards a mercantile future,
one no-hoper dairy,
something more like promise in another
as a matter of course
lacking a right touch with icecream cones.
What could be sold off was sold.
Grandmother's rubies and garnets went
but our portable Brunswick gramphone
stayed on, lugged ineffably from point
to Point, dependably grinding
shanties, tearoom melodies, musical
comedy, Peter Dawson The Floral Dance,
Dussolina Giannini Un bel di.