this'll fit -
gardening glove lumped over blue fingerbumps
clumsy like a toddlers walk.
hands dirty wrist-deep in tie-die mud
and earth guts, digging.
using a lollipop stick lodged at an angle
a makeshift spade ineffective drags down/up
over the rasping shoulderknuckles.
and there I am, digging too, a flimsy teaspoon
stolen from a hospital canteen, digging down
for doubloons or aliens or remains.
a soldier lays stuck to his plastic turf tilted
to his side,
a lego brick, a sixer, is cover.
a rockery everest and puddle the pacific.
we fight a war for fun, no irony, no satire.
just thrills and spills and mud-slinging,
name-calling, ambushes and fleet of wrist.
then the young buck catches his thumb on a thistle
and cries for woolworths, grabs the wound
and toils off around the corner.
tsk. see,
this'll fit - gardening glove lumped over
hands dirty, deep, rasping shoulderknuckles