Howard Firkin
You’ve got to love Australian girls abroad.
They’re cool. They’re up for it. They’re obvious.
They’re raucous: "Hey! Tonight! Come up and see us!";
or let themselves be asked, cajoled, implored.
They share their lives the way they’d share a meal.
They treat me like an uncle—borrow cash
and tell me who’s got lucky and with whom,
their paparazzi eyes dance round the room
and everything is photographed with flash—
a little crisper, brighter than is real.
If Europe is a cold, dark pool, they know
they’re water candles on it. When they’re gone
they’re leaving less than ripples here to show
how they ignited life with love and shone.
They’re cool. They’re up for it. They’re obvious.
They’re raucous: "Hey! Tonight! Come up and see us!";
or let themselves be asked, cajoled, implored.
They share their lives the way they’d share a meal.
They treat me like an uncle—borrow cash
and tell me who’s got lucky and with whom,
their paparazzi eyes dance round the room
and everything is photographed with flash—
a little crisper, brighter than is real.
If Europe is a cold, dark pool, they know
they’re water candles on it. When they’re gone
they’re leaving less than ripples here to show
how they ignited life with love and shone.
