if snapdragons could talk, they’d say
and wiggle their eyes and lick their lips
I snap their heads off in your front garden
put them in my pockets and carry them around
so I can pull them out in the back back seat of the car
and make them talk to each other all the way home
your roses are big and juicy, their jowls wobbling
as they turn their faces to the street and grin
I think they look like bulldogs,
all red-faced and fleshy and sharp underneath
I pick a fat bunch of them
rip the skin on my fingers
crush their petals in my fist
I pick a whole bunch just for you
because they are loyal and tough
because they will sit and stay where I say
they will lie by your headstone in the sun
these wilting dog-faced roses
Self-portrait by way of rubbish bin contents:
One coffee cup, empty. Sharpie drawing of a cat on lid, with text ‘Tom Cat.’
One Frosty Fruit wrapper.
Three letters from the Electoral Commission.
One Ventolin inhaler, empty.
One Magnum (peppermint) wrapper.
One toilet roll.
One D string from an acoustic guitar.
One teabag, used.
One black ribbon.
One unscented roll-on deodorant, empty.
One Panadol box, empty.
One ball of crumpled aluminium foil.
One nectarine pip.
One Australia Post parcel bag.
One pink tealight candle.
One tampon wrapper.
Two beer bottle tops.
One fine dusting of burnt Nag Champa incense.