Dunedin, 2007

Stumbling on the wee hour sidewalk, a sweet gallant punctures my whiskey fog. Windmill arms, but he rights himself to wonder am I OK. I wonder is he OK. We part to the leaf patter of a warm northerly.

Wind in his face

Wind at my back

Sunny day smells of drying wool. Three-day-unshaved swaggers along with a girl on his windmill arm. See how they whisper, foreheads bumping. She lies back on the bricks of the plaza while he traces her outline in chalk. She giggles and curls.

A far away man made me giggle and curl once.

Fog rides a gentle southerly. Three-day-unshaved brought fruit to the train station, standing guard over the heavy table, bending, reaching, changing money, bagging apples for his crowd. I might have bought one.

Were you so tall last summer? (I might have said.)

Were you so short? (He might have grinned.)

Rushing, apple bagger trips on the rainy sidewalk, windmill arms again.

Not rushing now, lounging – lounging in a café, jealous elbow on the new girl’s chair. All black, no giggles, no whispers – watch out apple bagger, she’s loaded.

Loaded-for-bear stalks the gallery in black. Spots her prey, darts in, eases back, tips her head. Sighs, then speeds around a corner,

dry paintings by dead white men. (She might have grumbled.)

Gotcha. (I may might sighed.)

Vast airport smells of coffee and no one’s crowd flows past the art critic. Did he see her tangled face? Her leaking eyes? Her paisley scarf? No one is leaving anyway.

St. Clair beach, and the air so impossibly still that shag calls pierce the wavy lull. No one and sad bear picnic with someone, their blanket scattered with olives, cheese, bread, wine, and something else I can’t see. Then my apple bagger and giggling girl emerge from the sea to drip salt and scatter sand. Everyone laughs. Someone tosses a scrap of bread and gulls descend.

Sand lends a delicate crunch to the silky brie but the greedy gulls want more.

Someone nestles under an umbrella on a bench with a very old book while everyone passes by. Everyone’s feet get wet in the puddles while chalk messages fade on the sidewalk “Fr Yog C ass T m rr 9” Gulls patrol but there is no bread, just a cup of coffee in someone’s hand. It could be empty.