Poems, songs, photos and other creative output of Tristan Peach (Melbourne, Victoria)
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Text
Sunday Morning
Woke before dawn
So quiet I could’ve heard a pin drop
Maybe even hear it fall
Heat up last night’s dinner in the cold pan where I left it
Read an old poem about new love
Walk to the beach
A man on a skateboard being pulled by a slobbering bulldog
A man alone in his sports car cruising along Bay Road
Paddy wagon parked in a back street
A detective on the footpath in ripped jeans
Kids on the field
Kick each other in the shins
Parents cheer
Brooding dads circle the boundary
The next oval
Grown men play
The slap of skin
The splash of sweat
Not quite good enough for an audience
We used to go shopping on Sunday
And walk home sipping drinks
Cook dinner
Watch reality TV
Magpies sift through autumn leaves
I couldn't deal with your past
And railed against our future
Tennis players flail in the icy breeze
I wonder at your patience
Shudder at my delusions
Cockatoos on bending branches
Chew at eucalyptus blooms
The paddy wagon passes
Going back to the station
The two detectives now sit
In an unmarked car near the scene
One makes a call
Wearing surgical gloves
I remember my idea from yesterday
To name a Labrador, "Apple Crumble"
Now it’s midday
Time to concentrate
There's whisky in the cupboard
Maybe it can wait...
I call a friend
Can they hear the ice clinking in the glass?
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Here’s a new song with a funny video clip!
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Photo
Tremont Street, Boston, Mass., 1945.
Dear Adie,
Gilbert is a funny boy—he carried his puzzle book to the train with me. You know a puzzle is no good if you lose some pieces. If he lost any it would be too bad. Do you make many puzzles?
Love —A.
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