Yes, lock the door. Tight. Check and check again.
Did you move the spare key hidden under the concrete swagman?
The unlucky swagman who drowned himself in the iconic creek?
Open door. Remove key. Lock door. Check and check again.

Make a cup of tea. Kettle is broken. Use the stove.
Sip slowly; only twelve hours to go. Enjoy the aroma. Peace.
God, God, do you smell gas? Yes, yes; check the stove for leaks.
Check each knob for verticality. Check and check again.

Germs! There are always germs. Clean and clean again.
Polish the door handles. Remove all swagman germs.
Clean the cup, the stove, the pot. Scrub hands. Disinfect.
Judas germs hide under nails. Check and check again.

Slip once and slip again. Polish is so slip slippery;
floors are ice-rinks to ug-boots. You trip and fall;
fall into the bath of steaming Dettol. Can’t move.
Broken neck. Swagman’s death. Die and die again.

P.S. Cottier

*Paraskavedekatriaphobia is the morbid fear of Friday the 13th.

‘Paraskavedekatriaphobia’ published in ACT Writers Centre Poets’ Lunch anthology (Boris Books) called Friday 13th. Selected by Michael Byrne and Paul Kooperman.

Lots of fun to write a poem laughing at irrational fears. So long as they are other people’s irrational fears, hm?

Now I promise that the following feather, although black, has no evil powers or even tendencies. Click it, fly to New Zealand, read poetry.

Just avoid any flying concrete swagmen on the way.

Tuesday Poem