Aspiring Expatriate

At this point, yes, I do miss Sydney,
Miss its dense cacophony, its Asian
Tourists, men in suits, its little houses,
All in rows with Streetcar-Named-
Desire railings, buses, trains and
People who aren't fat because they
Have to walk, and streets devoid
Of hulking cars, inept surfers,
Rising, falling on the waves of
Bondi Beach. I miss the evenings
In that sterile flat those Chinese
People owned, my daughters
And my sister, too, the tasty rum,
My son in-law. The days are
Growing longer there. They're
Growing ever shorter here, and
Everyone I see is fat, and every
Car's gargantuan, and all the
Kulaks on this wretched portion
Of the putrid plains disdain
Those who aren't white or rich.
They hate the Asian tourists.
They want a fascist in the White
House. Racist, rotten, dull,
Unread, they leave me wishing
I was far away, not in America,
But in, instead, a little house,
Upstairs, behind a pretty railing,
Drinking Bundaberg and Coke,
In Sydney once again.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 61 times
Written on 2016-09-28 at 01:03

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