I fly. Whoever would’ve thought
I even had enough money to bus back then.
Landing on my feet in a health shop
where I pack NZ cottage cheese
slick in its pottles & greet the organic
buyers on the concrete warehouse floor.
I freeze. And discover Scotch & Dry for my
back ache from the day’s work that I hate.
I sleep. The bed is crooked in its arrangement –
& the book shelf where I rent is stocked dead.
I walk. Around the neighbourhood where my stuff
is stored I watch the brick houses with their filigree doors.
Mostly I hear birds that I do not know the names of
or can even decipher the shape except for their wicked beaks.
I spit the cherry from the Italian Cake Shop with frosty icing for Easter
and where I stay there are crosses & aircon & cancer.
I still work. Trying to save enough money to get to England is
difficult without a reason. I never make it and learn about ravens.
The Greeks next door throw me a plate of goat meat and a book they
have of a Taranaki that no one knows where or how.
I hug. Following the man from across the road who has
broken his nose on a glass ranch slider. Who is 72 & sickly.
The cottage cheese job comes to an end because I cannot
stand the smell of garlic that I have to crush for an elixir.
The sore throat of the boss is lost on me when he hollers.
I wave. The lodger in me buys a ticket back to the country
where the cottage cheese exits. I offer the Easter
eggs from weeks ago to the man with the broken snoot
who has lost his smell and by now
his will. His cancer a ricotta in his bowel.