Fifteen minutes at the autobank, waiting for money,
and the nations stroll by with their children
and the new languages.
So many words for Saturday and shopping,
but only one word for money,
inscribed on plastic and the machine intones.
Your name’s numeric, pretending it’s the universal language,
but the footpaths show out the differences,
such as clothes and their colour, the number of children,
(oh, and eyes, hair and skin).
It’s a weekly celebration despite government green papers,
talkback radio and letters to the editor.
It’s inevitable like the violence,
and the bearing and raising of all these children
who are not getting back on any boats
because they were born just round the corner.
And it’s nobody else’s business
on a free winter’s day cut with sun,
crowned with the beautiful hard antipodean blue.
But it doesn’t seem so hard today
to love all that ordinary, forgotten suburban ritual
that could make this Saturday exciting.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem