breakfast euphemisms

boxing day paints itself in sunlit boxes
with tiny decorated trees leaning towards windows,
tinsel curving lazily around the roofs
like forgotten streets on mountain peaks
and a public park, wherein grown men speak
in heated tones that grow from grass and stumps
to bottles and a cricket bat death wish.

This is another Australian summer
spent with children’s faces shielded
a day spent in another Cronulla,
waiting until evening to ask
of the lines between the tabloids
of the six thirty news hour

what kind of anonymous pride is this?

Share This