Â鶹ԼÅÄ

I should be out there again,
fixing the ozone hole
with sealing wax,

Canuting the rising tides,
keeping the polar icecaps cool
with a damp cloth.

But on this day –
most days in fact –
it’s all too much.

I’ll loaf
another hour
in this beachfront shack

watching the fire brigade
in their flying boat –
Custard-yellow, inferno-red -

doing training drills
and dummy runs
in the mouth of the bay.

Wherever it kisses the waves
it drinks from the sea,
then climbs and pisses

a glitter of false rain
onto make-believe flames
and never misses.