I haven’t seen him in a while

I haven’t seen him in a while

The tattooed man

With his feet in the gutter

Head in the bin

Looking for cigarette butts.

Opening a takeaway box

Eating the leftovers

Sitting on the kerb smoking dope

Letting fly at passersby.

He was Indigenous

I believe.

White folks

Gave him a wide berth

Whilst adhering to the feelgood

Philosophy

Of thanking the custodians of the land

At every public event

In a belief it means something

To address certain truths

Whilst rueing the presence

Of commissioned housing

In their neighbourhoods.

Holding their noses

Against the reek

Of sweat and tobacco

Whilst they score a line.

Blaming them for every ill

A blot on the landscape

So many plots of land

Squared off

Flattened

Built upon

Sanctioned developments

With special mention to the history

But little investment

In the community.

A word or two

Of thanks is worth its weight in gold

Apparently.

History is a bitch

Change the discourse

Blame the dead

Whilst the fat of the land

Is sliced off

Released

Into the hands of the slavers.

We all stand by

As the plutocrats

Swill champagne

At a gala opening

After the dedication

The naming and shaming

Of the past

Whilst the rich

Fat cats with money bags

As hand luggage

Fly to a private island

Re-named to account

For the custodians

Whose blood

Was spilled to defend it.

Tattooed man

Was a fighter

He’ll be out there somewhere

Shouting at the wind

Making a nuisance of himself

One step away from a spit hood

And handcuffs.