Stephen Gilfedder: ‘The Public Pathways Flying Squad Reports’ and ‘When She Left the Room’

The Public Pathways Flying Squad Reports

Investigations are continuing
into the outbreak of footpath desecration
in Waramanga circa 1979.
Some cold cases have gone very cold—
the infamous and ever neat “D.T.”
we believe was eliminated
when his Sandman rolled
exiting the Starlight Drive-In
at high speed after inscribing
the speaker box with a Kilroy variation;
some work of “Richard”, as in
“Richard loves Cassie” has been
covered up by subsequent
cementary; and the author
of “The facts were these …” doubtless
has gone to ground in academia.
We’ve called in Forensics
to analyse the concrete composition
of the many pavers bearing the moniker
“Boof was (indecipherable)”
which tops our Ten Most Wanted.
We need to clean this up.
We’re sick of filing non-completes
under the ridicule of the Graffiti Squad
with their spray can graphology,
carbon dating and tagging database.
We’re going for entrapment, inscribing
our contact details in the wet cement.

Stephen Gilfedder

When She Left the Room

Somehow she was always out of focus
And could never quite meet your gaze.
Like a distracted gumshoe on the trail
Of a missing person, identity heist,
Conartist impersonation, she spent
Most of her adult life looking
For clues on who she really was.

Mailouts, searches of adoption agencies,
Hospital records, electoral rolls, endless
Spools of microfiche and online records,
Leads followed up in late-night calls.
Tracking herself down through tryouts
Of whatever job could be “The One”
All taken on with desperate intent.

Lauded as the first monitrice de ski
At Val D’Isere, with fabled guest stints
Back at Perisher, Falls and Thredbo,
Chef to urban glitterati and aristocracy
At the country pile where milord
Sent back the cauliflower soup
Because of spleen and parsley garnish.

Bad luck followed her like a curse
The boyfriend brain-dead in the head-on
One night late, the bend treacherous and icy.
Her devotion causing businesses to fail:
Down went caterer at historic homes
And providore well before its time
In the area marked for gentrification.

A specialist’s cancer sentence surprise
Began counting on her radiant physique.
Exploring still, she sought miracle cures
Drinking ayahuasca in Peru, joined
Homeopaths, herbalists, outright cranks
An ashram in the rainforest,
Chanting with the Orange People.

Medical advice won out near the end.
Sure, she feared death, but it was more
Not discovering who she might have been.
A holy visitation arched above me
Under the skylight, beautiful, complete,
Not the hospice gathering, a nurse asking
What she was like, who she really was.

Stephen Gilfedder