Monday, November 05, 2007

Picture: Joel Deane

My father

My father speaks
a foreign language—
shadow meanings,
sawn-off statements,
same old questions
about the car.

When I was home
he never hit me,
he never held me
(he never knew).

We just drove round,
never touching,
always watching
what we said.

My father is a model
one owner only,
straight, simple lines,
doors that clunk
when they close.

Previously published in Zadok Perspectives, broadcast on the ABC's Poetica program and collected in Subterranean Radio Songs.

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