I split wood on the back verandah
while woodsmoke wafted from the chimney,
watched Aussie Rules on Sunday afternoons,
wore duffel coats, scarves, beanies, and gloves,
ate hot chips, pasties, and potato cakes
with soy sauce, wore two pairs of socks inside
the draughty weatherboard house, warmed the foot
of the bed with a hot water bottle,
slid into tightly tucked flannel sheets
under woollen blankets. I ate porridge
with brown sugar for breakfast, sipped port beside
the fireplace with my father while Carole
King, Enya, and Van Morrison albums
played on the stereo, my mother
knitted in her favourite armchair.
I ate vegetable soup and freshly baked
homemade bread slathered with melting butter
and honey, rode my bike to school through frost-
covered neighbourhoods, breath rising through fog,
built cubbies beneath the old loading ramp
beside the railway tracks, hunted rabbits
in the paddock behind the abandoned
abattoir. I played kick-to-kick at recess
on the school oval, rubbed blue hands between
marks and kicks, sipped steaming tomato soup
from a thermos, skateboarded through town
in twilight before dinner, under skies
streaked pink and blue. I woke in darkness,
left for school before sunrise, wore woollen
socks and jumpers with corduroy jeans,
inhaled the smell of wet wool from girls
wearing damp jumpers, tartan skirts and black
stockings. I savoured Mum’s shepherd’s pie
and chocolate pudding on my birthday,
slept in sleeping bags on the floor in front
of the fire, huddled around backyard
bonfires with friends, passed bottles of bourbon
and port, toasted marshmallows, danced in pubs
and nightclubs until dawn, revelling
in the sweaty fug of friendship. I sauntered
down glistening city streets through yellow
streetlight fog and misty rain, arm in arm
with friends who accepted me without
reservations, hands buried deep in coat
pockets, drizzle beading on beanies,
scarves and faces in winter darkness.
