Rob Hack

 

Clouds now, and a breeze from Antarctica
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Clipboard carriers darting about.
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Public bar greeting: what you lookin’ at mate?
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Soap opera news, and soft cocks in charge.
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So he left New Zealand forever for the third time.
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Wouldn’t come back despite the Warehouse sales.
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Couldn’t return, shouldn’t return from singlets and jandals
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to business socks and sandals.
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Might not return. Better not return
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despite cheap houses back of Gore.
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If he did come back it’d be years away
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and only a holiday. A short one.
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So back he came, ten years now
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tripping over tall poppies cut down
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an outbreak of sirs and dames
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hiding from the melanomaniac sun
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slip slop slap he’s back
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for the third time, for good, he’s almost quite certain.

 

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