And sometimes on Saturdays
Jen nearly found perspective
in the bottom of her handbag
as she rummaged for cab fare
on a Saturday night
of drizzling rain
and empty Bacardi breezers
Nestled between the tampons
and the I phone with the dodgy software
that constantly
gave a must- restart- app message
Distracted
she paid the Cabbie
too much
and he made no attempt to
correct the situation
speeding away
in a cough of smoke
the exhaust
hacking out its metallic death rattle
His tag said Sayid
but every one called him Sam
because in Australia
no one gets your name right
and no one cares
who
you really are
Sam
cruised away from the long legged girl
who could not add
mentally saving
each dollar
hiding it in the sock draw
of a grimy flat
in Footscray
Sam kept names
embossed
into his tongue
Later
alone
on the broken bed
which lent alarmingly to
the left
he would recite them to himself
the sound of his neighbours fighting
washing over and beyond
not catching on his skin
not sinking into
the litany of his whispered chant
Sam still saw his sun
when he closed his eyes
low slung and heavy
hovering over the Nile
baking the sand
baking the backs of his hands
deep shades of goodbye
His family
waiting
always waiting
for the chanted names
to find them
and bring them to him
