Ride white lines
that travel down tarseal
to retire under blue
and emerald mountains.
Wetlands are preserved
so we can enjoy
the uncompromised habitat.
White. White. It’s a haven.
Everything we eat
is from the store
and the jetskis roar
this is what land is for:
an abstract use
taking up slack energy
we needed when we
were still animals.
I’ve educated myself
into a corner.
Money’s disproportions
swell the power of our house.
The hills here are fantastical.
They make the playground
look crazy
even though it’s not
the plastic trash
growing up in council flats
- even the perfectly smooth
cement of the skatepark
(hardly tagged)
can’t compete.
In this bright white light
rich people are nice
when they go by on bikes
in their biplanes
on the golf course
walking their spoilt
dogs and kids.
The wives seem nervous –
what a waste
of privilege.
It’s so comforting
like health, easy to forget
when you’ve got it
and the destitute drink
gasoline, somewhere else...
Relations forged with money
have money as their blood.
Your wealth buys the labour
of people who need the rent
for houses you own
you let them live in.
They fix the road and smile
looking at my legs.
My whiteness makes
me make sense
in Pauanui
where nothing has ever happened
we can believe, guilt free, and rest.
What we have here
is a model community.
The old are cared for
the young entertained.
There’s no reason
to be anxious
except the terror
emanates from the ground
of a ghost town
with jewelled appendages
on dull houses
with too many rooms.
