© Jennifer Compton
Storm! Power Cut!
up all the battery in my laptop.
Bugger! As the guys who only work
16 hours straight—pack of wimps!
struggle with the downed lines
on Murrimba Road by the school.
The wind is tousling their hair, what!
I scream, via keyboard,
(hyperbole!) to my mate in Denver, CO.
Tell the others, will you? Goodbye!
You should change your battery
or switch to outlet power immediately
to keep from losing your work. OK
house judders as the dark ages,
— by candlelight and hurricane lamp —
get a grip, squeeze my electric life shut.
Out on the verandah Warburton Franki
is not! counting out my kilowatt hours
with a rustling chock — chock — chock.
Now, I can think of anything, but I think
of the hermit sheep, with 3 years growth
of wool, flushed out of the faraway gorse
by working dogs. I stood watch on the knoll
of the long ago, more than somewhat, idyllic
hill. He feinted and butted — but the dogs
had got him. What was the lesson I took
from the hermit sheep? Nothing. Zilch.
I was playing chasey with the son and heir
round and round their shearing shed.
Christ! I smacked my head a beauty
on the flying buttress of the gutter pipe.