its roast pork and crackling on a 39 degree day
it’s a cold beer at breakfast, baked eggs, ham on the barbie, the scent of mango, pressies swapped in glee
its running under the sprinklers on a rottnest front lawn
its xmas eve, the four of us still wrapping presents at 2AM, drunk, giggling like kids – the pile under the tree a metre deep
its beach cricket after lunch, he’s out!
its baked potatoes in a caravan, drop-ins welcome
its all the prawns, all the prawns
its laughing at nanna
its life without grandads and grandmas
it’s the nine of us bleary-eyed at 630AM, my turn at santa
it’s a loungeroom ocean of wrapping paper
it’s an overfilled rubbish bin by 10
it’s a bloated gut, its another wine, its xmas sweat
it’s ham. Its ham. Its ham.
it’s the stupid cracker jokes, and thin pink xmas hat stuck to my forehead in the thick heat, cheers!
it’s the xmas eve santa report on the tv news
its lost in a rush of angry shopping mall missions, tinsel in october
its mum’s snapper in the weber
its spray on snow, on a plastic tree
it’s a stolen gnangara pine
it’s a deflated snowman in the afternoon haze
it’s the 2 hour drive to nannas
its waking up to a dad-built fort, with all the little knights placed ready to fight
its next-door’s kids in the street wobbling on a new bike, bells ringing
its squeals of splashy delight in the bluest pool, the white xmas sun
its xmas without snow
its xmas