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.