Sydney 87

1

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.

2

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.

3

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.

©Sonja Yelich