Journal » Trout 16 » Ten Places I Could Be When The Big One Hits [Craig Cliff]
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Ten places I could be when the big one hits

Craig Cliff


At my desk on the twelfth floor of St Paul's Square
hearing a rumble from the Hutt's direction
and thinking Surely not


At home, typing, pausing,
looking out the window, looking
in the mirror, sitting back down,
scrolling back up, deleting, typing,
pausing, checking Wikipedia if I mean
loquat or kumquat while you sprinkle
toasted sesame seeds on the kaarage and
clear your throat to call me—


In an aeroplane over the sea
listening to Neutral Milk Hotel
in a piece of mortal engineering / listening
on your iPod because mine has done
that sad face thing it does now and then—


On the bus, the one with the Sistine Chapel ceiling,
reading the last line of a story by James Courage:
It's too far away now, too long ago


Reaching underneath the dinner table for a slipped-away photograph
while you move the chilli plants onto the deck to catch the sun—


In the men's room at the movies,
in my own cubicle with my bashful bladder,
peeing bright Berocca pee—


At a wedding expo surrounded by old brides
or young mothers and hawkers too made-up
to be believed, sulking that the cake stalls
don't have samples and my goodie bag
is full of lip gloss and Libra Fleur, when
you stop two steps ahead of me and hold
out your hand and blink it once—


On the phone to my mother,
uh-huhing while checking my emails,
pulling faces from time to time to make you laugh—


In bed and not grinding my teeth for once—


At the pub with you and Dan and Stan
and Joy and Emma and someone's workmate,
or ex-workmate, I never quite caught her name,
half watching the Warriors who trail hopelessly,
tending my second and last beer of the night
as it's my turn to drive, or that's the plan—


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