We brought him pencils and paper and books
placed them with reverence inside his old briefcase
(the one mum said smelt like the city)
delivered them to him in the hope of prompting
watched those bony, once-dexterous fingers
feel through the contents like a learning child
take a texta
and draw a terrifying picture
of the Queen Mother
with a moustache
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poetry by Genevieve Callaghan
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