Two Dunedin poems
A small boy
Turns over each of the
Octagon’s metal chesspieces
With a clang reminiscent of a
Coke can being crushed.
When he has finished,
Having excelled in the
Art of overturning chessmen,
He stands arms akimbo.
There is a man I see everywhere I go;
In fact there are two.
The first always wears a t-shirt over his skivvy, and
Always carries a bag slung over one shoulder.
The other one is always seated drinking coffee,
Always talking intently to at least one other person –
Mostly one other person.
The first man is always alone.
I never know whether the second man’s conversation
Is as intellectual as it looks, or whether he is a fool full of words.
I know nothing about the first man.
He is always alone.