Bird, this June is gusty. I walk home against the spinning clouds:
A cat in a garden furious with roses.
Its cold eye, fuchsia collar, its fur the colour of chimney smoke.
A tiny gold bell at its silent throat.
The crowded afternoon bus stop. A lull in traffic. Buses and cars bank up,
idling at the lights up the road, and two boys step out.
Their blue school shorts, their white shirts and faces, their shouts:
Who wants to play the death game, the magic game?
At the intersection I stop to buy cake. A sliver car filled with laughing boys
hurries west. The light turns amber against their June afternoon,
a woman and her daughter in a four wheel drive. Turning.