I saw the bloodshot eyeball following me
down the long twitchell that winds between the depot
and the ghost house
it rolled with the ease of summer, its pupil always facing me
I dodged behind a hawthorn and took off my leg
my leg ran and kicked it
but was hindered by the brothel creeper it wore
like as not it would have missed it, anyhow
why an eyeball, you say . . . . .well, why not . . .
An eyeball’s as good as a girl any day
come to think of it, a girl rolling along a twitchell
would look damned silly
it was a big one, bigger than a normal eyeball
more the size of an ostrich egg
I think it was going back to the ghost house
because when I got there I peeped through the keyhole
and saw –
an egg the size of an ostrich’s eyeball,
not a normal ostrich, more the size of that extinct bird
the moa
lying on the floor in a dirty condition, needing cleaning
and hatching
I broke in and sat on it, feeling maternal
and most uncomfortable
brooding on my journey, I had the strangest feeling
I’d been had for a neddy, or I was just plain daft
And then I saw it come down the stairs, tripping gently
like an old woman with both legs kindly chained together,
softly and slowly, with lifelike gait,
an impossible thing with nothing on, a joke without laughter,
a ballad without words . . .
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