One knacker
Illiterate Sean, with his goofy
grin, both arms scraggily
tattooed above lanky wrists
(before single sleeves
became bogan de rigeur),
you wanted on your side.
Sean, that loosest
of Watsonia cannons.
Cranky and snap-violent,
punctual only by accident,
lacking customary restraints,
tight grey-panted Sean,
to those in the know,
was a testicle light
but a ballsier leader
you'd struggle to find.
Bursting through the centre
with the damp footy
one Greensborough winter,
kicking the sealer,
he inspired the coach
to yell, Go One-Knacker.
Sean shook his head
afterwards. Don't do that.
A product of 9D,
legendarily unteachable,
reaching year 11
on tech school
automatic promotion,
Sean toothlessly offered
to assist three of us
teachers last period Friday
when fifteen-year olds
get a whiff of weekend.
We stood back
while Sean sergeant
-majored kids to seats,
cocked an eye at us
and rasped: Don't forget
to all do your homework.
bw
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