let’s not say
I’m auditioning
suburbs as lovers
I’m plenty sweet
on West End –
she knows me
she likes me
I like her
I know her
(well enough for
taking to bed)
the faded resin
of her scent
lingers on
some sudorific afternoons
I lick my fingers
taste patchouli and
smell faint rebellion
the ethnic indeterminacy
wall hangings above her bed
wide verandah webbed
decaying prayer flags
Oh, but Sunnybank
I like you, yes I do.
I’ve got your number
you’ve got mine
your house smells funny
but familiar
after all tidal time
and what if I die here?
lay my body down
under sticky neon sheets
on a futon stuffed with lucky money
incense sticks in my eyes
carpet me in biko pudding
stuff chewy pads of cuchinta
under both my armpits
let the streets eat me
just another sour smell
coming from behind
that Asian grocery store
the one with the signs I can’t read