not
at all like a warrior
he
stood on the bike path
legs
braced, throwing arm
like a coiled spring
grunting,
hissing, shuffling forward
ready
to release his imaginary spear
whilst
diners ate pizza on the grass
stealing
furtive glances
or
pretending not to see
until
he stumbled amongst them
hand
no longer gripping his weapon
but
held out palm up for alms
where
he was once able to hunt
then
later came another
wavering
between those ordering
those
collecting, again
hand
held out palm up
being
politely told to queue
to
exchange money for food
where
once all had been shared
he
turned away confused
both
of them equally
phantom
members of a ghost nation
one
overwritten by time, out of place
existing
out there as trace, echo
like
the shadow of wallpaper under paint
a
mark left in passing, a secret
a
taboo
further
down the foreshore
the
women sat in circles
singing
songs under the mangroves
where
their grandmothers used to fish
waiting
for their men
hunter
gatherers
pizza
in hand
to
come home
©
shaun patrick green 2018
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