you escape from home during a real estate inspection,
a table outside chedo's special: croatian spit roast.
focused on perfection, you adjust chedo's doormats,
move the sea-blue dog bowl one-half centimetre to the right.
a white cab glides to a stop
a woman in slippers and a belted coat steps out
more skim, flat and white than your coffee –
no longer hot, her ends split and roasted.
you redraw the parting in her hair, correct two spelling errors
on the blackboard menu, adjust the waitress's apron
& straighten the cab's antenna.
the woman sidles out of the-shop-with-the-
heineken-sign two shopping bags clink
into the ample storage space in the boot.
the woman stumbles into the back seat
(you iron the surf calm as a silk sarong –
white caps & whales have no place
at a real estate inspection)
the cab slides away on automatic.
We Know the Coal Coast claims the real estate billboard.
