starter motor
crisp cul-de-sac sits empty
in outer suburban dawn
the starter coughs three times
on an empty stomach
before sputtering alive
and wipers stagger swipe
across the frost-wet glass
reverse—
swing out, shift back and edge
forward
keep the engine from stalling
clear head, cold morning
aches accrue, bunkering down
like old money gathering interest
behind wrought iron gates
or tessellated footpaths swept clean
of the fallen leaves from London planes
accumulating
at the gutter’s edge
of a wide, quiet street
Belmore Terrace
he arrived late in the afternoon, the light heavy and still
outside her room’s drawn curtain
bad sleep and salt against her face, the arrangements already made
I don’t want you to worry, she said, about any of it
and walking out for greasy chicken takeaway
in the warm summer dusk after that
he told her nothing was wrong
that they only felt closer, now
in the aftermath
*
only a little way down the footpath
to where Henley Beach Road intersects
east / west
to the city—or the coast
facing orange sunset escape you could glimpse
over low-slung apartment blocks
and an all-night laundromat
the local IGA, that KFC
and a car wash—the kind you work using coins from the centre console
sticky and dusted
with melted chocolate
and dry tobacco crumbs
*
they carried that bucket of drumsticks back
to beers and pouches of Champion Ruby
and whatever machinery they had
to play David Bowie loud
from their own front-porch-piece
of those heat-hazed, western suburbs streets
both sitting to eat, they drank
slowly, smoked—trying now
to be tired together
for a little while, yet
still heat and suburb
the fever of summer falls
around everything, even at night
even when it is cold, somehow
reality releases you
and noticing cracks in the walls
you cannot remember
if they have always been that size
or shape
the street outside reflects raindrops
slick asphalt and memory
and shadows move in the corners
but that cannot be
because there is no breeze
nothing to twist curtains
as cloth dancing before
sodium light
but you remember the fan
hear it buzzing, a creak
as the old plastic casing
rotates slowly
and stepping around the installation
feeling solid floor under soles of feet
you open the bedroom door
and look right, down the hallway
then turn left
toward the front porch
moving into the dark
into still heat and suburb
Ben Adams is an Adelaide-based poet, academic researcher, arts reviewer, and part time servo clerk, currently finalising a PhD on Charles Bukowski and postmodern humanism. His poems have appeared in print, online and other formats, including Australian Love Poems, The Grapple Annual, Tulpa Magazine, LiteLitOne, Poet’s Corner at InReview, the ‘Raining Poetry’ street-art project, ‘Quart Short’ reading night and ‘Well Versed’ radio series on PBA-FM. His first full collection, A Synonym for Sobriety, won the 2019 Friendly Street Single Poet Competition, while his personal essay “A Radical Liberalism” appeared the same year in Eclectica Magazine. More recently, he has co-authored scholarly articles on ideology and radicalisation, securitised education, masculinities and the incel movement, along with the forthcoming Vulnerability, Extremism, and Schooling with Lexington Books. Find more at linktr.ee/bts.adams
Locative Magazine 