A social site for poets in Sydney.
It happens in unexpected ways, on lovely ordinary days and quiet bus rides home. Two men discussing cricket.. arguing over points or wickets or whatever it is they do. “My dad loves cricket.” I hear myself say.. to the window.. the girl in the glass.
“Grown men standing around on the grass all day.” I used to tease him. He’d laugh and say, “You’d like it if you understood. Come…sit here and I’ll tell you.”
I would sometimes, sit a while and listen. His eyes would glisten as he watched the screen intently… pointing and trying to explain the mind-numbing game.
“Hmmmmm…” I’d say….and he’d wave me away with mock disdain. “You’re all like your mother. Go…play with your hair. Phone your friends and go somewhere.”
“Awe… Dad… don’t be that way.”
“Go on. Go on….and don’t come home too late.”