Brisbane Plain
The grace of an old-fashioned lawn
in a back yard flat as a pitch.
He mows in a white singlet
on scorched Sunday afternoons
dark continents of sweat
staining his blue cotton hat.
Now that he's alone he's
in the house but not of it.
Sleep is frictionless
yet still he can't afford it.
The heat is a heartless banker.
One more friend moves south
one more night he spends
watching headlights cross the ceiling.