Hotham street was dead
quiet at 12:16am.
The possum lay
spread-eagled
cry emblazoned
on a broken face
its kidneys heaped
in a ditch
its life-pink vibrant
in the darkness
on the tar
half its intestine
still inside
a great escape
the cops closing
it was all over
there was nowhere to hide
who do the possums call
when Mum doesn’t show
who’s in charge of the worrying
who waits with the young one
while another
gets behind the wheel
to confront the night
who gets informed
who confronts the press
with times, streets and approximations
when does the incoherent ranting begin
when does it stop
is there closure
and how do things open up again
will a memorial arise
what will it be made of
who will visit it and how often
will any stories be told
will they focus on the good
or the bad
how long will it take til the memory
becomes a black hole
swallowing itself
and impenetrable
Hotham street was dead
quiet at 12:16am.
