Might we have been happier, dear
if we had just been, well,
a little bit more normal
with, you know, car in the drive
pebbledash semi furnished in g-plan
rooms knocked fashionably through
and ice water that magically flows
from a peremptory fridge door?

Instead our haunts were all Bohemian
our houses singular decorous ruins
with leaky roofs, bad plumbing
(never mind that elegant line
of brick stringcourse and cornice)
and all our friends and neighbours
pressing their attentions on us
like a casting and audition list.

Let’s fall in love all over again
with plain and simple things:
morning walks in suburban streets
(sun hot, town still slumbering)
currawongs call out each to each
rosellas in dawn-hue flocks on lawns
milk bottles pecked on verandah steps
cream-flecked silver foil tops.

© Peter Sinden