Fighting Words (for J.D)

One moment in the window
she recognises the glass mask.
The door jerks closed
and she's somewhere near
Central...or Newtown
and reading Ursula Le Guin.

A few rows ahead
and child shudders out howls
in intoxicated hysteria
at the contents of his mother's purse,
on their way to Mortdale.

On the other side of night
two students linger
in the lung of
David Foster Wallace
enjoying the still dread
of the bar's dense air.

As a man remains at his desk,
admiring his handwriting
for the seventh time.
Since he decided 'home'
had evaporated in the drought.

Now knowing that girl
from lunch has grown
into the park bench.
Waiting for light to lift the moon's
cold whimpers and
cloaked paralysis.

And all the while
we're making tea.
Waiting for the kettle
to squeal
and relieve death's silence
so we can talk again.