CHARMAINE THOMSON
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Graduate House
My biscuit house is baking
Under the solar radar
New loves, new roles, weeding banks
And building decks alfresco.
The piano warms the paint
My man vanquishes spiders
Together we bask on stairs
Eating our banquet of chips.
At night the tide moves curtains
Couch-bound I will wait for you
Warming myself with TV
As possums dance on our roof.
Below us, old codgers sleep
Plotting schemes against parties
Friends beyond fences offer drinks
And play nocturnal guitar.
Weekends mean music lessons
Some garage puzzles for him
Treading the shallows we dance
Our dog surveils the garden.
My days swarm with small children
You are off somewhere else
We are a walking cliché
But not enough for the bank.
At parties we are rigid
I am not one of your team
Fair game, young and compliant
Decorative and sober.
I am waiting at misty windows
For flights to warmer cities
Our haven is the beach house
Nostalgic, gritty and free.
