The heartbeat of my father’s step
on the stairs. He worked with maple
tabletops thick as a hand-span
and the bevelled edges of the world before
I was born. Now the stairs work him
too hard, his labour is breathing.
A caretaker with strong wrists, my father
wiped the dance floor then
wrung out the piss-mop of Who’s Who.
Obscenity? Forty years on
the mailbox he erected
accepts his death certificate.
The distance between looking and seeing – call it
my blue heaven. ‘Come quickly, the sun is on television!
It won’t grow old, not so you can see…’
Whereas we retire to the acetylene interiors of sheds
near Glover’s Geraldine, Curnow’s Karekare…
There are whites on the washing line, windless
proofs of wear in this best possible world.
Because it accepts everything
black is angelic. ‘You get big
shadows from signs’ (Gorky).
Memory is depression,
the wear of heels on Timberseal.
The sun kneels to plead its case as we count