kick the pip out of Lebs,
or any fruit that looks vaguely other;
they say the feeling’s worth bottling;
striding the crescent,
girls in their entanglements,
bra boys flicking on their straps.
On platforms commuters expect delays
look to the suburbs for support,
beer queues, black outs, fists in the machine.
In the darkest hour
Salvation Army kitchen serves soup
and rolls with the punches.
Morning stiffed Ultimo office pilgrims
find light at the end of the tunnel;
some have a ticket to Ryde and they could care.
© Mal Robertson
Tasmanian Times Poetry Editor.
Tasmanian poets or those with a Tasmanian link are invited to send up to 5 poems which have not appeared previously in print or electronic media to:
For the complete collection, click here: Poetry, Peter Macrow
Draped in blue banners of stars and jack,
light weight of a nation on their shoulders,
they go to press a few olives down the beach;