P

 

[P]

 

A.M. is suncloud houses, mind’s myriad post-it notes

every post a winner different but the same

youth a room of posters and what’s in a name.

Soonest a sonnet, the world trip postcard quotes.

Soonest friends posthaste, timewise prosperous.

Soonest post-prandial, post-coital, post-graduate

signposts to say it is never too late.

Poignant, precious, sometimes preposterous.

 

P.M. wishes to postpone its memories

this morning’s preludes turn a tinge of postlude

because postmodern becomes the postancient

because posthumous prospects render reveries

because posterity soonest learns new attitudes,

postscripts reminders life’s impatient.

P (May)

Crawling guttersnipes behind sneaky wheels scan supermarket gridlock for P. Adenoid astronauts in souped trashcans lever to dock at P. Dreamy daytrippers, minus GPS lost, drift to spaces called P. Avaricious consumers, alone above anyone, grab in avid haste P. Orderly operators with mechanical grace arrive on the dot: P. Karma chameleons and fierce-burning tailgaters vie May mornings for P. Squealy wheelies with twenty-seven stickers burn U-ies all around P. Gap snatchers with chutzpah queue-jump the service lane for P. Fat buses, my way or the highway, big bum P. Humourless hatchbacks, their eyes averted, steal the last spot, P.

P (February)

P is for Phone. The Doctor Who. The Over-Cheery Overture. The Hand Set. The Glass Marimba. The Led Zeppelin. The Bubbling Water. The Wooden Typewriter. The ProgRock Boing. The Teeth Chatterer. The Erratic Rubberband. The Falling Teaspoon. The Primeval Disco. The Tuned Jackhammer. The Morse Goad. The Mindless Harp. The Planetary Pinball. The Machine That Goes Ping. Q is for Question. “He said what?” “Do you actually know?” “Honey, where are you, I’m going over Merri Creek?” “What are we eating anyway? And what about the kids?” “Why am I always going into a tunnel?” “It’s February, right?” “What? W-h-a-t?!!!!!!!!”

P (September)

P1, who was he? Dependent on parents he had to puzzle out. P2 in the sandpit under the nellie kelly. Philip is one of the f-Ps, imagining Greeks training horses, rode them numberless miles on campaign. But I am not the P you put on me. That P is gone as September 2001, hard to place as that person cycling down adolescent Warrigal Road. That P you would objectify, sum up or divide out. They say we are twenty-five people at any one time: P reading Proust, P talking to staff, P on tram stops, P invisible even to self.