my ballet dancer’s
highs and lows
perfect in the spotlight
afterward no cake allowed

my suburb’s left the hill and slid
onto this once fertile plane
my median self, valorised
to an irredentist instant

like stuff-in-the-carbs and
what-the-hell and what’s-
discipline when it comes

to baking memories
of swings and roundabouts
into a flashed-back life
just for the sake of it