fly-fishing in woolloongabba

facing the mirror

and having a shave

in the near darkness

after an evening of watching the wine disappear

listening to traffic outside

rivers of exhaust and light

white light upstream

red light downstream

schools of syringes

wade in the shallows

needle packets float in the gutter

absurd fish scales in the breeze

my partner understands it better,

better than most

understands the intersecting flow

gently, she understands

as a young girl living on a remote, black community

a minority of her

in a majority

understanding, she is too gentle for this river here

and back in the mirror again

a spot of blood appears on my face

the water running down the drain with my blood

night-juice into the underside of the current on our doorstep

a small fire is ignited up the street

we hear the faint pop

when someone has lost it

tossed a chemical bomb on the steps of the Serbian church

and just what did it solve?

as they escaped down one of the side streets

down one of a thousand bitumen estuaries

of the big river

when tomorrow I’ll stand on our doorstep

cast out a line in the comfort of full ‘contents’ insurance

the sharks motionless in the disguise of the undertow

and the little fish sighing, for the want of better