Happy Wagga
By John Muk Muk Burke
an overview
We’re happy—right?
survey says so.
Flowered parks,
roundabouts,
light in the way of
lights.
night life’s no longer
Capital,
But………… sport’s clubs,
pubs—
sports clubs;
RSL
LEST WE FORGET
that place
or places.
All that
fresh blood shed
on far-flung
distant shores:
we’ve all got more,
for
their loss:
booze galore,
jackpots;
for an electric toss.
medical nemesis
We’re happy—right?
doctors wait little-bit long time—
haven’t we all?
patient and strong?
now the end’s arrived:
unlike some piddly clinic
as in Ngukurr………
Arakoon,
Boree Creek.
Bring the halt—
lame,
weak,
starved and stammered.
Discharged?
Then celebrate
our clubs—
it’s all about
YOU.
Illich, spot on!
Wheel in the normal
(admittedly ageing)
and label them
diseased:
ease all manner of
imagined maladies.
afterwards
Funeral parlours?
Yes!
Bone-yards?
Yes!
Crematorium?
Yes!
(understated secularity,
touch of gloom,
piped tunes
sustain
convictions,
balloons confetti-dot
our hot blue shroud.
A wake for those awake?
Yes!
there’s clubs,
stately homes,
cake and sherry.
lower and higher learning
Flush with cash?
Not into public trash?
Why not
Privatise the kids?
Charles Sturt University—
a gum-tree uni
poor relation
of
red brick,
Extra-flush with cash?
First in, best dressed
Gr8,
might be worth a bash.
Kindy,
grade,
college,
uni,
got it made
in Wagga.
Blake’s dark
satanic
mills
grind out mindless
MBAs, tooth drillers,
and other coffer fillers.
got the travel bug?
visit poor old gran
at the flash facility?
polish up the ute
on Sundays
and Satdy arvos.
Flush with cash?
Calvary?
A raised-up place…………
Perhaps it’s you?
Perhaps it’s me?
Why, for all that lucre
you’d want the blood red sky.
natural beauty
Collins Park,
(a bit on the side?)
botanic gardens,
where sheep and peacocks reside;
and then the Victory Gardens;
iron fountain
playing,
roses of remembrance
swaying,
some semblance of the sacred
flame
framed by granite gates
of late
adorned—
Iraq,
Afghanistan,
soon be
Syria……….
well that’s the plan.
feel like praying?
Take your pick.
Grand Saint Mick’s,
geriatric
Jesus at Jack’s,
Our own hippy Hillsong.
It’s all alright,
endless night
one day must cease
our surfeit of pain
must not
increase
in a town like
Wagga—
home of a
quiet uncertain
peace.