view from a window

Guy pulls up in a beat up red car

gets out. Middle age spread, worn out Birkenstocks

faded polo shirt, still tucked in

alone

divorced from his wife, from his career, his family

but not his self-respect

he’ll go down swinging

 

and he walks down the street with a flimsy daypack

and a handful of folded letterbox drops

 

He walks quickly, trying to make

the 50 drops per dollar spread further

than a beer and a counter meal

from three solid hours

three hours he won’t get back

like the hours in the back yard with his kids

scraping the barbeque

grabbing his wife’s arse in front of a mate

the laughter spreading like warm blood throughout

the sunny, Sunday neighbourhood of birds, trees and squealing kids

 

He grows restless at the increasing number of signs which read

“No Junk Mail”

and hurries past the letterboxes.

This is his first day

by the third he’ll turf the remainder, half a backseat’s worth,

into an industrial bin

and he won’t care

won’t give a shit

why would he at three fifty an hour?

 

but right now, in the midst of the unbearable waking dream

if he stops, he’s worried he’ll suddenly stop breathing

 

And on the weekends, he treats his kids to a dvd

or a swim at Southbank

and a McDonalds Happy meal

whatever they want

and on the way back, their wet, sandy feet

kick the rubbish around the car floor

and tiny hands pick up a leaflet

a forgotten, folded letterbox drop

and open it

 

Ikea – ideas for easy living

October 26, 2006

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