Canada’s Godhead`
Ascending the stairs
to the Great Hall in Toronto
in the Hockey Hall of Fame
is like entering a shrine-
the closest you can ever get to Heaven in Canada-
the white marble staircase
the stained glass ceiling
the shining icons encased in glass.
As I stare at amazement
at the Art Ross Trophy
a boy about ten
wide-eyed ambles by
& whispers
to his dad
in hushed tones
as if in the presence
of the Devine:
"Can I please touch
the Stanley Cup?"
The Job Interview
The panel of three women
ask me about my experiences
with working with kids.
‘Not much,’ I admit, but tell them
I come from a large family
& have played heaps of different organized sports
at high school & for local clubs:
ice hockey, baseball, basketball,
soccer, volleyball, ten pin bowling-
even table tennis & chess.’
I can't remember much more about the proceedings,
but afterwards,
I was checking out the youth center’s facilities
and a middle-aged woman from the panel approaches me
& we get talking.
‘I used to know your mother Joan before she passed,’
she incredulously tells me. ‘We used to swap baby-sitting duties.
When I moved to Elmhurst, we unfortunately, lost all contact.
You probably don’t want to know this-
but I have actually changed your nappies dozens of times!’
As this image is slowly sinking in, she smiles and whispers,
‘Don’t tell any one yet, but you’ve got the job.’
Jury Selection
for Mary Hooker (1958-2019)
“Can I see you again on Tuesday?”
“I wish I could,” I tell her, "but I have to rock up to Court that day."
"What for? Been on the piss again?"
"No, of course not. A jury is being empaneled and I may be selected."
"Poor thing."
"It may be interesting. Perhaps provide some material for a new story."
"Well, I've been called to the bar twice in my lifetime,” she says.
“ I don't think the justice system at all benefited by my participation."
"Why’s that?”
"The first time - you won't believe this - I was in labor when they called.
I was too preoccupied to make it.”
“No shit?”
She emphatically nods and then continues.
“The second time occurred a couple of decades later after we moved to Dubbo.
The Court Clerk asked me as a matter of course if there was any reason why I should be barred from the proceedings.”
“There sure was’, I explained the Court Clerk, ‘Do you see the accused over there?’"
"Yes."
"Well, he's my son."
“Amazing! By chance, was he the same child you were in labor all those years ago?”
“Sure was.”
The Reading
The young woman approaches me
after the reading & tells me how much
she loves my work:
“You must spend a lot of time rewriting,
redefining your images,” she says.
”No. Not really.”
I explain to her how I try to knock off a poem
in one, perhaps at max, two goes -
then move on to the next one.
“I’m not like, say, John Tranter who might
make a hundred or so drafts of one poem.
I don’t have the patience or inclination or talent
that a poet of his calibre has devoted a life time to.”
She nods. “Yeah, too many poets overthink
what they do. They lose that spontaneous
quality I find remarkable in your best poems.”
“Yes, I totally agree!” I tell her smiling broadly,
my limp overly rehearsed lines now hardening.
Cobra
She always insisted
when the time came
& she was forcibly placed
in a nursing home
by her children or the
authorities
she would lead the revolt -
she’d organise mad parties
& drink & bonk faster
than anyone.
Yet when time eventually snuck in
it took the inoperable form
of 18 cervical tumours.
And as her clock wound down
the pain was like a cobra
& it strangled the bejesus
out of her & as she whimpered
& screamed the deranged fangs
of death
struck.
