Wallaby in the Garden

There he goes, that flash of filthy silver, that mob-less gangster – ears like spears, shoulders broad as the sky – pogoing across the panorama. And when you call out, point with the arm that works, she blames fires in your brain, cries hallucination, eyes rolling to heaven. But there he bounds. Our prize-fighter. Thud-testing lawns with ink-dipped feet, the arc of his leap downcurved as your mouth. Here you both are, caught in the pull and drag of an afternoon: him, romping over pot-bellied hills yet you remain, the wheelchair your anchor. Watch. There he goes. You were a joey once, remember? You sprang through this world.