Saturday (Poem)

Saturday:
vague miasma of querulousness flavouring the air with acid
(pre-teens, don't get me started) -
the sky indifferent, palely blue, while the wattle sheds its lurid gold
now is the spring of our discontent -

hard to work, like walking in hot tar
it doesn't mean anything anyway, except paying for things
(which is the most pointed kind of meaning when the gas bill is due)
I bet Edward Snowden didn't feel like this, though, or Chelsea Manning
or even, I suppose, the Don:
meaning and mission hanging heavy in every moment, every small act
every word and movement part of a larger whole
consequence a real and weighty thing, that requires belief and full-heartedness

here is an interesting thing: futility tastes a little like sprouts
sulforaphane curdling on the tongue, pulling the lips back
it's no wonder that saudade looks a lot like contempt

Saturday:
children fretful, heart fluttering in butterfly tattoo
the sun shines on, coaxing tentative buds from the trees

I shrug off the pointlessness of all things, and drink tea.

- Kathy, 26/09/2015