Quotidian Selves
Spring Street in late summer
at 9 a.m. was a handsome mix
of public gardens and stately state edifices,
and I was glad to have the use of my legs
as I toddled my quotidian self along,
looking about for perceptions that might
link to the word-finding part of the brain
now stirring after my first coffee.
My friend came to mind, moved this week
from the nearby hospital to its hospice.
Whatever I see is part
of what he has already lost.
I see a policewoman beside
a woman beside her car.
On the paving a small petrol can
and a patch of spill beneath the open mouth
of the fuel inlet. They have no funnel
and I know how it feels and smells.
Iıve got a funnel in my car
itıs just along there Iıll be right back,ı
says I, proud of my quick helpfulness.
Back in a jiffy, brandishing the black plastic cone
and its screw-on tubing, I masterfully jiggle it
into the inlet, while at my shoulder the woman
gingerly tilts the can and the petrol trickle starts.
That smell!ı says the policewoman,
my husband used to be a mechanic.ı
In my mindıs eye a dark-fingered mechanic
caresses a woman police cadet.
Donıt some people get high sniffing petrol?ı
(In my fatherıs day the phrase was motor spirits.)
The fuel has now found its way through the tube
and I can withdraw the black nozzle.
They offer me an old newspaper
should I wish to wipe it dry.
No thanks, Iım off, glad to be of service.
The funnel in the back of my car
sends fumes forwards;
inhaling them high-spiritedly
my quotidian self drives off.
My friend, I hear later,
has died this morning.
His quotidian self is stilled.
A sense of him hovers
for a time near those
who are glad they knew him.
Tuesday 22nd-Wednesday 23rd February 2005
Max Richards, North Balwyn, Melbourne
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