i.m. ‘Judd’ Fahey
Joyriders lose their bearings and cut adrift
from the slick wintry macadam hit
on a bollard like a bright thought to halt
their progress. Three slump unconscious,
but the driver stumbles from the wreck.
What happens then is anybody’s guess,
but he’s been rolled for his wallet
and his watch by the time he falls
in the drink, or so the family later insists.
For a month he’s below the bridge,
withheld in the deep green –
long enough for us to wonder; maybe he
skived off to Cairns, Townsville, Mungindi. . .
Semester commences and he’s still
not back – till three children down by
Milsons Point spinning for silvery creatures
to prove themselves by – whiting, bream,
flathead – instead snare this cadaverous ju-ju.
There, a city leapt lightly from the ships,
pegged itself to the rocks and persisted, picked up
its registers: birthing, dieing, marrying –
at night the harbour buoys wink out
but not in memoriam, not for you.