The suburb recalls dry leaves, brittle
as words spoken between thieves,
actions cast as easily as seeds
to land wherever, become what may.
He was raised to look straight ahead,
no dips or lifts, a flat bed,
no changes to the walk and voice
shared throughout the neighbourhood.
He was raised by a similarity
found difference through family,
through genes and conditions
through drought and spring rains –
a sheet frozen stiff one morn
footsteps printed on the lawn,
Mrs Coppinger’s dachshund
the lisp of a boy around the corner.
Fear in that suburban realm
and laughter to overwhelm;
the legend of the man who hung himself
the fist flung because of a brother.
The morning woken
standing in the kitchen, sleep hardly broken;
questioned by police
even though his hair was not red.
Maybe the biggest influence there,
in Glenroy red hair
signalled something
his hair was brown.
He smiled too easily
laughed noisily
cried at sad music
believed in magic –
there was no magic left in Glenroy
divided and subdivided
it shrunk into a memory
along with koala and wallaby.
He was raised by the flatlands of Glenroy
left them as quickly as he could
and carries them everywhere
dreams of mountains and rivers still.
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