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
discontinued—
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.