Outside, on the footpath, (a hot day), is a child with a can of lemonade and a family. He is spinning around the post just outside my door, slender and agile, spilling none.
He turns and dips around his mother. She’s standing in the shade, using her phone. She says: Please concentrate on what you are meant to be doing. And he, in acknowledgment, turns faster, round and round, spilling none.
There’s a sibling sitting in the front seat of the car, door open, hot seats, sticky with his own drink and watching on. The dancer dips and hoots, making outrageous angles with his head and elbows.
…around the post, around his mother, dances madly for his brother. The brother nods.
Back to the post, a cool metallic partner that supports his smooth zigzag to the ground and back up into the heat. Spills nothing. It’s time to go.
Mum says, ‘Use the bin,’ and he does, smoothly.
Artwork by Denis Gonchar
There is always, always something going on outside the window.
Today is waiting day. People are climbing off the bus and waiting for each other. They wait next to my window because I am next to the bakery. They tap the window and point and cough and wish for summer.
This morning, two old ladies are waiting for their friend who is over in the art gallery.
They look through my window at a biography of Kevin Rudd. One lady speaks, but I can’t hear, she is looking away, across the road.
Her friend answers abruptly.
‘No. No, that is not right.’
She bangs her umbrella tip on the ground three times.
‘He was not right. ‘I will not have that book.’
The other lady sights their friend and gives frantic signals.
The lady with the umbrella is looking through the window, through the reflection and the unusual sunlight, and directly, piercingly, at me.
When they move away, she continues to watch me, all the way past the windows, until completely out of sight.
Thanks a lot, Kevin.
Book Painting by Mike Stilkey