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