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Bit Chuffed, To Be Honest (in memory of last Tuesday)
Out back of mum’s place,
near the rusted Hills Hoist
where the plovers won’t shut up,
I strung a line between two lemon gums,
hung up all my second guesses.
Saw Mick from next door—bare feet,
flannie, holding a sausage roll
like it was communion.
He nodded once, grunted twice,
said the lawn was lookin’ alright.
And mate— I was chuffed.
Not proud like some puffed-up rooster,
just that warm, no-fuss kind of chuffed
that sits in your chest like a dog beside the fire.
The clouds didn’t judge,
the magpies sang their usual nonsense,
and I remembered that the letterbox
hadn't blown over in three weeks.
Small things.
But bloody hell,
they count.
.
