Frank, a short man,
With all that that implies;
In his annecdotage –
Garrulous as a cold caller.
Strutting like a terrier.
He controlled with charm.
He bullied.
They named a dinosaur in his honor
That he rescued from the stone
Clutches of a wrecking coast
with pulley, winch and wire.
Wilful as a spoilt collie,
Nipping and barking, worrying,
He got his way.
Children, wife: collateral damage
To a story starring him.
There was always The Stuff
To be recycled, hoarded –
Piles, stacks, bins, drums.
In search of gratitude, in search of praise,
The Stuff coopted into
Games of status.
In the mirror of his mind
He championed a war on waste.
Mountains of crap, shaming,
Shredding domestic dreams
and self-esteem.
Love left huddled under a doona,
With the curtains drawn,
Minds numb with
Drugs, God and denial.
Standing on the Darien Peak
of fondly reclaimed rubbish
He stared out over the wreckage
Of his family and saw
The vision of ‘Frank’
Burning bright with self-regard
Bringing order to the
Treasure hoarded,
rubbish tip of the world.

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