the demolition kid.
stars bob their heads
in and out of the atmosphere.
the pet shop boys announce - go west...
my father veers his truck
between pre-dawn buses,
landing alongside a mcdonald
sign on paramatta road.
today, apartments grow there,
but fifteen years ago there bloomed
a golden M, thirty feet high.
i smile out my window.
father, glum at the prospect
of taxis and glowing pale yellow
from the dashboard gauges, he
turns to me and asks; son,
are you hungry?
-
to work, in an alley off george street.
sunlight leaks down the western walls;
down the rear porches of first floor lofts,
smeared in peeled apricots.
first things first...
son, let's learn to tie a sheepshank.
afterwards, bring down the jackhammer, the grinder
and the wheelbarrow,
and try not to make so much noise,
this is residential.
can you handle this?
of course.
i prove to co-workers how many bricks
i can wield in a wheelbarrow
up a flexi-board mountain.
sixteen was my record at age eleven...
... the boss's son.
gasps all 'round.
-
the rich man's restaurant: a mesh of gyprock, studs and brick.
the centrepoint tower: a black prong in an amorphic skyline.
the harbour bridge: half a web over a buzzing river...
out back, the one way traffic
and a white truck, etched in silver scars,
leaning from the sidewalk
into bitumen.
-
the stench of grease from central station
outflanks the aroma of coffee beans
being cracked open in michel's cafe.
nevertheless,
by ten a.m. i become the caffeine boy.
a notepad in hand,
my writing is uncursed and primitive -
2 s m, X 5.
and for henry - an egg and bakan roll.
a fifty crumples in my fist
and i scamper through the metal nest.
-
the red afternoon tucks itself into a corner
pocket of the earth. white ball, sinking colour
into the landscape as i linger outside the ettamogah.
it was one of those night jobs
i concealed from mother.
