Saturday

It's Saturday night
and I'm home
alone
in lacy underwear
and I need a plan

not just for the immediate

(a dress to wear,
shoes,
some vague itinerary)

but for life

the new year looms

and I have no idea
whether to attack it
or embrace it

or nonchalantly avoid eye contact
waiting for 2011
to make
the first move.

Can one be coy
with one's career
one's hopes for love
and fulfillment

and if we throw ourselves at
opportunity
allowing the disguise
of insouciance
to slip off
like a dress
discarded in passion's haste

will we feel
red faced
ashamed
in the morning?

Parity

We're writing letters
to past lovers

hers is sealed and stamped
and sent off hastily,

mine has five chords
and a chorus that
isn't quite right yet

I need to make it rhyme
without manipulating facts
to fit
form and rhythm.

We feel we can
be honest
here
where we can be naked
within the privacy of
these four walls

when lies are the most
common currency
in current public exchange

(because they'll buy you more
than truth, so everyone seems to think)

Is parity
ever likely?

Will the decimal places
that separate
honesty
and calculated deception
ever even out?

Is my truth
worth
more or less
than your lie?

And what value is lost in the
conversion
of one
to
another?

I'll Be Whoever You Want Me To Be, I'll Even Pretend I Like It

I met a man who changed my life.

I was waiting for a tram, and he pulled over to the curb in his late 90s model Holden Commodore and said,

'Get in Jane, I'll give you a lift to work.'

Now, you all know that my name is not Jane, and that I was not on my way to work, but somehow, without thinking for even a second, I decided to get into that Holden Commodore, with this man I'd never seen before in my life, and be driven off to a job I didn't know I had.

When I got to the office, everyone welcomed me, and knew my name (which, as we have established was not really my name, but one I had rather hastily assumed) and were happy to show me about the place, finding it comical that I suddenly couldn't remember where things were- for example the stationary cupboard, or the lunch room.

At the end of the day, the man with the Holden Commodore (whose name I had learned was Greg) kindly offered to give me a lift home, which I accepted- and when I got to the unfamiliar house somewhere up the top end of Lygon St (which could have been North Fitzroy or East Brunswick, it's always hard to tell) he was able to show me where I kept my spare key for emergencies and I was able to let myself in.

The house had all the things I would need for my new life as Jane- toiletries, clothes, a pantry full of food, and a little pot plant on the window sill that looked like it hadn't been watered in quite some time.

Years passed, and I began to enjoy my life as Jane- I even got promoted, and all the people at the office threw me a big party, at which we all got tipsy, and Greg (who still drove his late 90s model Holden Commodore) tried to kiss me by the photocopiers, which I wasn't sure I really liked, but I went along with it- probably because of the champagne, but maybe also because, in a round about way, it was because of him that I had got this promotion.

Some time later I was walking up Collins St in a pair of heels that said, 'I mean business' and someone stopped right in front of me and called me by a name I had all but forgotten.

I stared deep into their eyes, looking for the reflection of the person who belonged to the name they had called me, but I couldn't see her.

I said politely,

'I'm very sorry, but I think you have me confused with somebody else'.

And I walked purposefully away.

I didn't want to be late for my meeting.