Susan Austin
Bordeaux (New Year’s Eve)
Tonight, in this strange town,
I asked five men directions.
The first did not know the place
and led his dog onwards, eyes smiling.
Suit man couldn’t understand
my poor French pronunciation.
The third, standing by a taxi,
pointed, but still I could not find.
The fourth, suspiciously helpful,
walked with me, astray.
The fifth, aged, drunk,
was stepping from his flat.
His slurred commands got me there,
where I drank my beer, alone.
There is no moral to this story.
…
Tourists take bicitaxi, Havana
On coverless cushions
we sit
looking at his back.
Slowly as he cycles sweat
wets his t-shirt and
reflects light from his neck.
Taut calf muscles
patched sandals
a flat tyre protest.
“There are good and bad things about Cuba” he says.
A missing tooth smile.
He rides, he rides, he rides.
With dollars in purses
avoiding police glances
we sit
looking at his back.
…
Hostel Blues
Been travelling a year.
I missed people till I came here.
Big rooms
full of bunks
and people coming / leaving / not sure/
The indifferent kitchen
breeds feral dishcloths,
families of crusty cutlery
and chipped, scum-lipped plates.
A stoic fridge hoards name-labelled
and out-dated food.
The funky common room
exudes conversations without subjects,
cigarettes, nonchalance
and subtle moves of acceptance and exclusion.
In my dorm I am accosted by
a miasma of unwashed socks and self-interest,
strewn oddments and
the any-hour rustle for cosmetics.
Here my loneliness is public.
I roll from the light and curl
on tonight’s expired mattress.
© Susan Austin
Peter Macrow,
Tasmanian Times Poetry Editor.
Tasmanian poets or those with a Tasmanian link are invited to send up to 5 poems which have not appeared previously in print or electronic media to:
[email protected]
For the complete collection, click here: Poetry, Peter Macrow
