It was an afterthought, an add on,
an interior brick-walled continuum
lined with bull–fighter posters
and a print of Neuschwanstein castle.
In the corner was a ping pong table
with a limp net and saw-dust bats.
I remember the Rastafarian shag-pile
and my younger brother straining
at the pedals of an organ as my mother
tip-toed over the scalextric set with a plate
of toothpick cocktail sausages. I read
Nancy Drewe and the Hidden Staircase
while my cousin shot pellets through
a shelled-out biro at the grown-ups
sitting along a divan, our mothers
drinking shandies, our fathers arguing
about Moffatt and Brock as they wound
their way around Mount Panorama.
That’s how it happens. You pull out a memory.
You’re there but you’re not. No more constant
than the girl who vanishes in dust after
holding up a banner to start the race.
Kim Waters lives in Melbourne. She is currently studying for an Advanced Diploma of Visual Art. Her poems have appeared in The Australian, Going Down Swinging On-line, The Shanghai Literary Review, La Piccioletta Barca and The Raintown Review. She won the 2020 Woorilla Poetry Prize with her poem ‘The Builder’.