Poem — Leonard Lambert


For Bob Orr, who knows that coast


You sent me down for sea‑corn

deep among the rocks below the jetty ‑

It’s a delicacy, you said. Pick one of three.
At the bach we found the water off,

and the walls kicked in, the dunny blocked ‑

It’s always been like that, you said. It’s never worked.
The tiny tennis court beneath the trees

was wet and weedy ‑ who played this little game?

You did, every Friday. It hasn’t changed.
We left in the BMW of a socialist friend,

he in a panic went on and on ‑

I’d be just as happy with my old Vdub, he said,
and a bach on a lonely coast,

I’d play mini‑tennis, live alone,

and live, he said, on sea corn.

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