An ALDI grows where you once grew.
You see there what others don’t: a house,
built after the region’s first rush for gold;
and yourself, still growing.
High Street, Kangaroo Flat, 1981.
You’re green, in gingham – with white socks
and Dunlop Volleys on buckled asphalt.
Triceps squeezed by last year’s sleeves,
you hit a ball against the kitchen wall.
Rod Laver racquet, warped,
is left in sunshine often.
You, too. You’re pink
and sweaty. Freckles flashing,
you serve underarm to pitted bricks
but can’t predict returns.
Evenings, you reach again
with forehand – deep – to scoop
from damp consenting earth
the frogs beneath the garden shed.
You hold them as you would
a putter: two hands certain, soft.
You like to watch their golden blinking
snapshots of yourself.