Heroic money Poem by Elizabeth Anne Martina Ryan

I throw in my lot with them
showing me the crashed lights they drove into
cold isolate Bohemians
My mind is filled with condiments
pompous and self-pitying, which they escape
"I am unworthy". You bow and leave
and rationalise it by saying it was wrong
Maybe in another world I feast on the detritus
like a business like a hospital
The Star Trek editors watch Australiana on TV
the personalities philosophising
Tell the Central Committee we feel bad
lancing the streets
past the brideshops' dulled marbled gleam
It was weather like this when we buried him
drugs and sex cancelling nausea
like it's going out of style
Now the train rides over green palaces of trees
and dribbling oracles