The ’70s were times for culling kangaroos,
when Chum would keep the jump in your pooch:
98% kangaroo, 2% food colouring.
In 1992, the government declared the kangaroo
fit for human consumption, emu too:
national symbols became cuisine nouvelle. I’m worrying.
In the year 2042, the government declares the cull
on elderly. Too much drag on social security:
baby boomers in the stew. I’m scurrying!
JAZZ SHOW IN THE VINES
We left home from Magenta, up through Norah Head,
driving through a black spot, lost the internet.
My thought train slid, as Coltrane dropped from Spotify,
down the sax keys of my mind, longing for my children
at the jazz show in the vines.
Children are the blue notes in the pentatonic line
as we leave the pier and pelicans at Budgewoi behind.
They ride the engine’s murmur as we pass by Morriset,
saddening the timbre of the mortal instrument
that strains towards revival at the jazz show in the vines.
There’s heartsink on the highway, crossing double lines,
dodging all the roadkill, traffic cops and fines.
We pull into the Caltex to refuel and refresh.
Fresh coffee and the love will bring us both
to the jazz show in the vines.
Pushing on through Cessnock, fibro shacks and wines,
take a left turn through Pokolbin, following the signs.
There’ll be bubbles on arrival, brass arpeggios,
a chanteuse on the mainstage, chatelaine by my side
proclaiming our arrival at the jazz show in the vines.