- From the bottom of the ocean every day I wave at you. But my waving slows then stops as your boat glides over the top of me.
Every day your same direction.
Every day my same waving.
Within the guts of a roaring bushfire I wave and coo-ee and wave at desperate you. But my blackened stump of an arm eventually stills and there is nothing more for me to do but grip the burnt-away reins from the back of my black gelding; we watch your fruitless wet-wheat-bag-beating battle.
When I stand on the railing of this bridge I can see for miles and miles and miles.
Here it comes, here comes your car, here comes you.
Up the ramp, atop the ramp, down the ramp while I wave at you; but my wave is lost in the confusion of my flailing arms when I leap.
I stand in the long paddock amongst the golden grasses that sway as I wave at you driving so fast past me. It is a crisply sunny autumn morning.
I like to stand here next to my flowers and black cross and tree.
Right here on the corner where the chamfer is a little out.
But there is your family and phone and dvd and cd and no me. In consolation I wave at your little son, turned to watch me from the back seat.
He waves back.
In the dark of every bloodied Friday night I have stood about for ages,
Reeking of city laneways and bars; spew and sex and piss-soaked.
Resting one foot, then the other, leant against walls and drains and doorways, chilled to the bone.
I waved but I guess it was too dark or something.
Dunno.
Perhaps you were a little bit scared, in such a hurry to move forward first to the finish from which everything winds back.
