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Boldrewood Parade

by James Walton (follow)
Boldrewood Parade

I think I finally see clearly
out of those trespassed estate streets
where the sounds of looking
are dusted over by unmade roads
like some early Drysdale,

a veteranís emphysema in a backyard shed
skew whiff late afternoon shadows
stretched children playing cricket
the warty rabbitoh
with all his skinned specials,

next doorís son dying of knife wounds
on a rotting front porch
later they used tweezers to pull the fragments out
saving his parents some grief
when laid out for relatives to bathe,

from under the kitchen table
listening to women in scarves talk
my motherís cigarette burns
to my hands were always accidental
I have to be sure of that.

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