Our friend Mark collected teapots.
We used to hang out in groups
loose collectives of young honey bees
raging in a beehive structure
vaguely understood by
One blue day
when Brisbane began to warm
we swarmed to the Spring Hill fair
jazz notes floating on heating air
in concert with wafts of incense
street food and muti-coloured tshirts for sale
too many but never enough
pots of icy cold fourex beer
scotch and coke, if you’d won last nights
game of cards
off our face laughter
time on our hands
in the laziest of hazy days.
A brightly coloured fat teapot
came home with us in the yellow cab.
Groups change shape over time
sulk off into the distance
when outsiders pick us off, one by one.
Mark was picked off early
just another traffic accident
on the 6 o’clock news.
I’ll never forget his collection of teapots.
Dedicated to the memory of Mark Patrick
note: published in Speedpoets Magazine (Vol 9.4) 2010