The critics gave it half a star,
I gave it tears, great gulping
sobs I swallowed down
whenever Our Nicole
kissed Our Hugh
or on screen
hopped a kangaroo.
A filtered lens made red rock
and pink sky,
like Our history, it satisfied.
There was no cultural cringe in Jakarta,
just uncensored sincerity, hushes, laughter.
Baz, we went over the rainbow
and found you pots of gold, row by row.
There it was, my dreamtime song,
delivered falsetto American, dong.
I clutched for home, whatever could assuage
(I’d take anything at this stage).