If, in single motherhood there’s chaos,
some days though are blessed, some days
to make you think I like what I am seeing
even (especially) the stubble and the sweat
this Saturday morning where,
swaying outside the supermarket, doubtless slightly stoned
he’s busking.
And you want to talk to him,
find out where he’s from and where he’s staying.
Couldn’t the town add more like him
to its personnel: resentful Leagues Club long-timers,
commuters, developers, the fly-in rich,
uni-bods, the tattooed, the dreadlocked, the mums
and musos.
And as you pay
for what’s being played he slips in ‘Thanks’
and how there’s more this evening at the Bowlo.
You and a girlfriend go of course.
Knowing you and what could start,
she’s made damn sure you won’t look plain
at all. And if not tonight (yes it’s not tonight)
there’s going to be one night soon, except it is
one early afternoon, and sooner than you planned
and back at your place you are talking both
(talking plus the rest) well before the kids
get home.
And it’s good getting to know him!
Somehow you feel he’ll think Nice children
and he does. It’s even better
you telling, him understanding how oh yes
their father ditched you for someone prettier,
dumber, no not ditched he’s far too gentle
for that, besides he did you a service, really
(most days aren’t you passing the test?).
Besides they just ran off a few Ks north,
so he’s reliable, their father’s that
and she is too.
Who hasn’t baggage?
We’re adults, parents, have these relationships.
‘Relationships?’ he replies. ‘Good ones. Bummers.
One particularly mean bummer.’
And nothing’s wrong
in being coy re whom he’s fucked. But why?
You soon surmise what they and you possess:
lean, tanned Been through much but gettin’ my
shit together faces, psyches still sucker for
the lesser drugs, too much drink some nights
and men, men who arriving single with a guitar
read heaps more than you do:
Hunter S. Thompson, The Old Man and the Sea, Catch 22.
Surely he won’t bring out jealousy and malice?
Someone though, thinking she might be a friend
needs to warn you: ‘Hang loose?’ she says,
‘He hangs unhinged. Why’d he finish here?’
A man can’t hide from what was last year’s news
in certain parts of Melbourne.
Bugger any e-highway, it’s that slow-marching
seep of gossip that will out,
finding such places no digit, no keyboard, no mouse
ever reaches. You and your rough diamond?
forget the clichés.
But your response is No
it has to be. You pride yourself in knowing men,
in holding back and choosing one who mixes,
won’t over-rate himself, holds the grog,
isn’t a head or freak of any kind. No no no no,
he’s a burley, stubbly muso in his thirties
who really likes you, who’s taken to your boy
and girl with just that touch of necessary distance.
And he’s moving in.
*
You know he has a daughter,
but how the child is missed, that was the clincher.
Though when he talks about her he blames
not the ex, not the other ex,
but that ex, the Central Victorian one.
‘So,’ says the man, ‘let’s plan it.’
And getting out the map just won’t relent:
down to Batemans, up across the Monaro and the ACT,
through the Riverina, down to the Murray
and over to that vague, orchardy area round Shep,
then west to Bendigo and south where someplace
in the Goldfields they’ll be, they’ll have to be:
his princess and her mother the bitch.
True that’s a bit too much,
you can cope but, believing all you need
to do is calm him, and tonight’s options range themselves:
certain medications, yoga, massage, pussy,
but always after, that lady who can say
Yes, we’ll do it, not right now of course
but one day.
And it works.
Saturday evenings at the Bowlo you beam at
the BBQ, the mellow dope, the mums’n’kids,
with him there swaying through his pick-up
jam sessions Taking it from the very top.
Why even those sour hedonists
in at the bar staring at their League
seem neutral. Nobody deals, everyone shares.
That afternoon, until you went to get
your children from their dad you both
Bet you can’t … bet I can again
played dares in bed.
Are you going to love him,
allow yourself to love him? Those friends
still trying to work it out
(warning you about him? more you about yourself!)
don’t get it right.
Sunday arvo should be even better.
In the beer garden your boy’s made friends
somewhere, your girl’s as ever clingy,
but happy.
Then he joins the cover band
and during a set, whilst you’re distracted,
gets annoyed, smiles of course,
but after the break he won’t return
and stays annoyed.
What did you do?
What did you say?
Nothing he keeps telling
nothing. It’s those pricks in the band.
Full stop. They invited him just
to make him look … well you saw
how he looked.
You can’t tell him what
you didn’t see. Which is right
and a mistake. And right. And a mistake.
In a week you’ve said something and he’s said
‘Why’d you have to say that stupid?’
Then, whatever sense’s left in his head
seems to swerve out in the wildest arc to hurtle back
and disintegrate.
You name it he throws it
(isn’t that, it’s said, what women do?).
So calm him, get him sheepish again.
With a little sweet, sexy affection
let’s get him talking about himself,
ask when you can ‘Why’d you do it mate?’
And loving explanations he replies it’s the daughter,
he stuffed that one trusting her mother;
whilst you’re relieved your god’s still present,
the god of Please never do this in front
of my children for one day that god
mightn’t be present.
Stoned, drunk, both or
none at all, what was he today?
Sure this afternoon you’re sick of each other,
still but let’s hit the Bowlo.
He smiles and sways of course, whilst you remain
too taut to flirt. Didn’t he announce
‘I’m a one lady man’? More than ever he is.
He’s fun, he’s talented, believes you’ve both a future
and the kids jump into his lap. Nearing midnight
you might be listening to Chet Baker
or he’s reading aloud from Neruda or
The Mersey Sound.
Then someone says something
his mind will not be clear enough to process.
They have a target, he’s the target.
You better believe him, go on say it.
But this is your home and you’ll say
what you like.
He won’t hit you, yet;
just takes an arm, pushing it up your back
to ask ‘And what about what I’m feeling?’
You’ve known him how many months
so what are you feeling? How about
Sorry mate, just don’t quite get it
or more likely Am I to blame?
Well I never deserved this!
Or even
This isn’t how you fuck.
For some nights it’s still that good, he knows it is,
something has to be. And it isn’t that
he’s crawling back, it’s worse:
he’s like it hasn’t happened.
*
His screaming has commenced. The kids are home.
And you are bruised, walking-into-a-door bruised,
like you’ve seen enough before except
now it’s his, his bruise and possible fracture.
You saw the good man (if nobody else did)
the one who rolled you your White Ox,
the one who actually wrote songs,
the man you were loving who disguised
so much (no doubt from himself).
Well it all is out now with a sort of noise
that’s heading to your kid’s guts
to stay for decades. But it’s when
he starts up ‘Don’t you get it, I love kids,
I love them!’ you grab yours and lock away
the three of you, three hearts deranged
with thumping, with him outside the toilet
howling, whilst you phone your girlfriends.
Men arrive, and now he screams at them:
the Bowlo band, the cover band, the busking partner
who then reaches for what you never thought
you’d reach with him: cops, their AVOs.
Oh, and you’re reasoning again,
he was never thick, some cops are truly thick
and sometimes we need what the thick provide.
Meantime he’ll be off,
a stocky, perspiring man, making noises no one wants
to understand, getting dragged away.
*
Blue-eyed handsome, by-the-book neutral,
with blonde hair in regulation buns,
when the women mention you by name,
that name he cried every time (you’re fearing now)
he loved you They’re on my side
you start to think they have to be.
You say: ‘Domestics must be
your very worst, right?’
They say:
‘Shall we send for the children’s father?’
And you have to ask for a repeat,
you can’t quite get what they’ve said.
They point to your face:
how will you get this attended to?
You have the answer:
your best friend in the area’s a nurse.
You want to stay indoors? You’ll stay indoors
for days because you’ve planned enough,
you’ve planned too hard.
This could’ve worked except he’s sick
and stupid. Once is a shock,
twice you’re a failure, but three times
that’s a pattern and three times mate,
matey, sport and Sonny Jim you’re out.
Oh by the way that was Number Three.
Hadn’t grief disposed of your bravado
you might’ve said it.
Whilst you locked yourself away
the Bowlo’s kicked all hippies out.
By now it’s spring. Whatever’s replaced League
the sullen bar is staring at it.
They may be grubby, certainly are trash, but none’s
as violent as he is; and if you hear Closure
once again you’ll snap anything in half,
knowing this sounds simpler:
He’s off to find another fool.
The women cops arrange their closure
but he doesn’t make a time to apologise
he makes a time to explain.
Some might say Get into anger management mate,
right into it whilst others sneer
You are a weak, weak man.
You though make a time to hardly listen,
just to be assured they’re heading off now:
sheepish him, his reading matter and guitar
through regional Australia.