Poem Category: Miscellaneous

Travelling salesman
the scent of unclean rooms
too far from home.

Sunday lunch
dropping the family album
laugh lines slip out.

Sunday lay-in
the corner spider
now with dots of her young.

In the tall tree hills
down a winding road
motel lights in the fog.

Morning rush
the lift operator’s cough
for the pretty girl.

Birthday party
sliding down the polished handrail
past all the oldies.

White water rapids
tear at our clothes in fury
yet their taste is sweet.

The Puma’s cage stinks
its eyes drill with a fierce brain
crammed dull by pacing.

scooping the Galaxy
in the ice-melt
I prepare our coffees.

losing the sunset
still the fragrance
of the frangipani.