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WHAT WILL HAPPEN?
What will happen
when I stop moving,
when I drink less
coffee grains,
when my back
stops really hurting
from the endless
time on trains,
when the library
forgets my fines
and then forgets my name,
when that feeling
of cold sand
on dog-run beaches
no longer
belongs
to part of me,
when the death
of waves
is not my music,
when telegraph
wires don't
string my sky
like crucifix guitars,
when the smell
of cut grass
is once more over,
when the flame trees
strew their seeds,
when the robot
chant of destinations
is a woman
I never knew;
when the lantern
is left rusting,
when the ships
return for coal,
when Brett Whitely's
ghost
leaves the motel,
when Rob Younger
cuts his mane of hair,
when DH Lawrence
makes love to no one,
when the Clever Man
calls through
the coolness
of the stones
to place a feeling
on the moon,
when the streets
no longer hear
my footsteps
in the evening
walking home
from the train
back to Thirroul?
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