by Jiahu Wu
the art dealer and the artist were talking about little boys with guns
one said I never bought guns for my boys
the other said someone gave my boy a gun when he was here
— you know what the boys did if no one ever bought them guns? they ate their vegemite sandwiches into the shape of guns and held them in their hands
— when my boy had the gun everyone around him started singing and clapping and he laid down on the ground and smiled with the gun in his hand with the gun by his side he was so happy
opposite the gallery a guy sat in front of the watchmakers and read a book on his kindle
his brown jacket and white lapels stood out against his blue jeans
he looked bored as hell
on the white chair
the rain threatened but never did wash away the dolour attached to the concept success
aka 'making it'
the fat tourists in grey track pants and adidas hoodies rolled their noisy suitcases down
the road
they disappeared behind adina hotel entrance as if they entered a portal towards a secret
concentration camp right here
in the middle of the city
through the open windows I tried to guess the occupation of each inhabitant
engineer
architect
lawyer
student
widow
window washer
no a window washer would not live here
the rent is too high
the dog that came in had his tail between his legs
he had clear but sad eyes
no morals came through— the day was a riddle
the art dealer gave commands
the artist responded cordially
the poet sat on the floor and felt the cold concrete against her bum
conclusion:
girls liked puppies barbies casuarina trees and sitting on the ground
boys liked guns
Janet Jiahui Wu writes and makes art. She has published in various publications of literature and is working on her first book. She lives and works in Sydney, Gadigal country.