Better Than Having Nothing To Say
I begin again
on the same path I take every day,
past the familiar fences, hedges
and duck under the same
sag of overhanging trees.
Past the house
with the sociopathic dog,
the cottage still hung
with christmas lights
from months ago and a pink
weatherboard bungalow
whose front yard is populated
with mushrooms
and garden gnomes with
a recalcitrant peeing
into a fountain shaped
like a scallop shell.
Then the opulent splendor
and stand-offish demeanor
of a thicket of town houses all with
porsches and mercs parked
crooked across manicured driveways.
And next door,
an old mansion that hasn't seen
a coat of paint since Elvis
strut the stage, curtains drawn,
the structure stately in its ruin,
defiant in old age, sliding towards
demolition or resurrection
with its secrets still intact.
Then, at the end of the street,
a vista of the river mouth
opening into the wide reaches
of Port Phillip Bay. I take a seat
and begin, as I always do,
to rummage for a poem,
a starting line or two,
for something profound to say.
Today, a blank silence,
a totally empty haul except
for what I saw as I passed
along the street and have
recorded here
which is probably better
than having nothing
to say at all.
Tomorrow I might try
to go another way.
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