Saturday. Hot December. The last newspaper
before the open secret of the ballot.
Pages open a fistful of dollars. Fives.
On the countdown nights before ground zero
a baby sucked a nuclear grenade's nipple.
The newspaper columns slip through fingers —
the latest phonecall votes decode. Yawn.
Today's — the only poll that counts.
Still, yesterday was only yesterday.
Coffee and cream and fat globules
float like frogs' spawn. Wake up.
Rimming only the ankles — sweat
like standing fixed in sand runnels
as the tide drains out. Stoic. Only
twice in a lifetime, it's come in.
Bang! A grenade? A nuclear blast? No.
A helium balloon's radioactive confetti.
Must have dozed off. The heat. Wake up.
Australia. A perfect day for the beach.
Must vote. For the losing side, again.