Background: In the 90’s I lived in an inner suburb of Adelaide, where burglaries were rife, and we suffered that intrusion twice.
Our under-things in disarray
they’ve spread our privates wide
and filled our rooms with the sour sobs
the urbanite must abide.
I look for rhyme in what they stole,
the price these objects fetch,
as if they’ll yield a perfect clue,
and fit a formless wretch.
What have we here, what circumstance
has brought them to our nest
to stuff a K-mart pillow slip
with mid-life’s treasure chest?
The underclass in sweet revenge,
retrenched and fighting back?
Or addicts in a frenzied grab
To feed their mother-smack.
All conscience-pricked, I will forgive
their need to take their share
and call for rapid social change
to clear the fettered air.
But deep inside my bowels rage
against the outer grace
and if I find the thieving shits
I’ll smash each mirror face.