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There are weary smiling workers recovering from a Thursday night event. There are men planning this, the second weekend, with their family. There are married couples — one in the throes of giving up hope of being touched, the other working hard to ensure the weekend is chaste.
It is raining. The ball has doubled its weight and is like kicking a basket of wet washing. And it's slippery, like grappling a live fish. The boys have kept this bayside game going many years, but I've only rocked up in the past couple. A ball hurtling towards me from on-high raises a new set of fears.
The drops are not an army ... Each promised drop gives the roof .. a temporary rash which .. fades before the next gob hits. .. The water does not rain as a team.
But there are times .. as I pass through half-life .. when I want to fly up where you are .. drift as far as the geometric pattern cuttings of the docks .. where the Yarra Yarra and the Maribyrnong meet
It's hard to make things rhyme.. When you're running short of time.. But you try to relax.. Cut the TV, phone and fax.. Play your favourite instrumental, light a taper.