Coming home
I read the alleyways
like tracks through the bush.
The night is over tropical,
silences and shuffling,
television antennas
and fake ice tea.
The earth's thermostat cranks
and an anthology
with Kinsella's aliens
keeps me awake
so I smoke This Plus™
at the top of the stairs.
My accent gets smudged
like an important phone number
rubbing up against coins
in my wallet.
I watch the drunks
scuffling at the end
of the street
and I feel like I'm waiting
for the big prize
on the crooked game show.
I learned surrealism
from travelling exhibitions
then did my best
to forget it
hoping I could come off
easy and casual
like terry towelling hats
or cold beer.