Ross Jackson

Summer frying on Oats Street

Ross Jackson

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Cycling Boy’s from Oats Street, a cream brick block of flats where

numbers to ring on plywood doors contest like crown of thorns

junk mail bursts from boxes, lots of stuff- all we can do without 

cement balconies hang little shadow squares on the road

skirts of pavement grit lift as the breeze of the Armadale train

scuttles by, noisy cars: backing, wheeling fleeing make putty

of a vacant block, a brindle pup jogs alone, circles posts, steps

over prickles, buckles its nose under a bus seat, ends with three feet

in sticky paper, an auto mart’s oily secrets behind its double

padlocked slack mouth, corner Vietnamese with glittering

outdoor broom make a pile of more broken glass from their deli

doesn’t know, never been there, get off my case why don’cha

an ooze of lassitude as Cycling Boy lifts a face refried by Summer

easy to see his eyes recycle his lies the length of Oats Street



Ross Jackson


Ross Jackson is a retired school teacher and long term resident of Perth, Western Australia. He has had poems in many Australian literary journals and his work has also appeared in New Zealand, Ireland, England and soon to be, Canada. He writes about the experience of aloneness in the suburbs, about aging, the companionship of dogs, visual art and many other topics.

Ross has led an unexceptional life but he is not complaining. 


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