Poem: New Year’s Eve in Matamata. Early 1990s.

Three of us. We only have a few beers – but we can get into the booze-cabinet if we want to.

First, we’ll run down the road and put a bambina car up on someone’s front lawn.

We sprint, hard, as if anyone might be watching. There’s a rush as we hide behind the couches, the music off.

Panting. Secretly hoping there’ll be a knock at the door to ignore or a si…