– for Tim Sinclair
We were talking poetry in between spoonfuls of mousse
while the winter sun warmed the floor that nearly froze
the night before and I think it was then I commented on
the kitchen table as the cosy spot. You said you feared
not feeling free to walk to the shop for a carton of milk
in these very same uggs.
New York gave you insight into rhythm and rhyme,
scraped heels on black boots made of thick leather
and a knowledge of the subway system.
She made you an Other
and did it so well
you fit her like a puzzle piece.
So what did I think?
That you would return to your kitchen table
like a cat to a window to soak up sun?
Next it will be Sydney.
I do long for you to claim the space:
find a regular sushi bar, a favourite op shop
where you grow to greet the old ladies by name
patronise a local serving Toohey’s on draught
pine away for Coopers Pale Ale
and when it happens – Sydney, the milk –
will you hands-in-pocket walk straight backed
with your city slicker confidence to the corner store
wearing hole-worn uggs?
Owning comfort, giving it a name
calling on your Bridgewater roots?
So much depends upon ugg boots.