Ross
At morning tea
he usually sat on the stairs,
a tall man folded up, fitting
long limbs into a narrow space.
Late evenings he often walked
through Waterloo Green
as my dog came down
for its last micturition.
‘Hello,’ he’d say, ‘Time
you took your mother upstairs
and made her a cup of tea.’
Morning, afternoon he was busy
with odd jobs, scheduled meetings
about bicycle paths, garden fences,
decayed spouting, inconvenient
trees or neighbours, street lighting,
equity for walk-ups, tenants’ rights,
and delivering the South Sydney Herald;
a faithful man filling a generous space.
He usually wore a polo shirt,
a blue of faded intensity,
and he often turned scarlet
lowering his head
and I could hear his anger
pawing at the ground.
It is strange and painful,
that someone
so particularly present can
suddenly
not be there.
Catherine Skipper
(For Ross Smith)
We loved him and he loved us
Many topics we liked to discuss
Identity politics, abandonment
of the working class
He loved us and we loved him
The way is a state of delirium
Making our prayers
to regain equilibrium
Revolution
We loved him and he loved us
Reading a book by Saint Maximus
About a time before passions,
ignorance, illness
Revolution
He loved us and we loved him
The state is a site of delirium
Calling on Jesus –
on every poor, renegade pilgrim
Revolution
Cherries for Christmas,
a coffee to the brim
A paper to deliver in the interim
Many are the things
we hold in common,
and we loved him
Revolution
Andrew Collis
