What time is it?
My feet hurt.
I don’t have a typewriter.
I’ve been reading Beat poetry again, getting lost in it.
I have to make scones for Poetry Kitchen.
Power tools howl on both sides of the apartment.
Cars stumble down the street.
I am thinking this in the I am voice of Allen Ginsberg or Jack Micheline.
All those men.
Outside Simon works with the leafblower clearing up the leaves.
He makes a terrible noise at least once a week.
I wish I were him. His life looks simple. He does the grounds and the building.
I have to bake scones for Poetry Kitchen.
I have to do this. I have to do that.
I want to sit here writing poetry letting my mind think things as my pen records them.
I want to sit with the writing of Jack Micheline enjoying the rhythm of it.
I want to live on the streets like he did begging from village to village with my poems.
A man could do that and retain his dignity.
A man could do that.
A woman has more sense than to do that.
A woman makes a nest to come home to. Somewhere to keep her books.
Micheline can’t have had many books living like that.
I suppose he died happy or perhaps unhappy but we shall never know.
It was the 1960s. The 1950s.
In San Francisco. In New York.
It was a whole different time.
It was McCarthyism and now we have Tony Abbott.
He makes a terrible noise at least once a week.
To maintain my sanity do I have to maintain my apartness?
I don’t have a typewriter.
My feet rest on a synthetic persian carpet.
I bought it in Lifestyle Furniture for two hundred dollars.

From The emptied bridge

This poem was written in late 2013, not long after Abbott became the prime minister of Australia.

What do you think?

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