PRIVATE CONDUCT

LBeneath her jersey,
young breasts push
the morning blue;
his eyes drop down
to the round young rump.
Distracted by the gap­
toothed fence, he stares
at a humped old woman
walking to the butcher's.
Ankles swollen,
she stands peering
through the window,
where dead meat hangs.

TRANS

--Snicker! A hand on his shoulder.
--As slim, as your Personal promised!
He orders for two. Red wine.
They talk of mountains, of tramping;
an overnight at Green Hut.
--Muggins rides in my pack, he says.
--My book and lantern will ride
with me, she says, eyeing him.
You're wearing a skirt?
--I dream of being a transvestite.
--Married to your cat, you've already come out.
--Don't get me wrong, don't...
--Don't mince me up, Snicker, excuse me.

BRICK

walls, small windows,
side-by-side,
each state house
mirrors the next,
except for
a child on a lawn,
a red trolley,
wheels in the air, a neighbour yelling,
You've lost your boots,
another shouting,
They're on his feet.

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