Howard Firkin
You’ve got to love Australian girls abroad.
They’re cool. They’re up for it. They’re obvious.
They’re raucous: "Hey! Tonight! Come up and see us!";
or let themselves be asked, cajoled, implored.
They share their lives the way they’d share a meal.
They treat me like an uncle—borrow cash
and tell me who’s got lucky and with whom,
their paparazzi eyes dance round the room
and everything is photographed with flash—
a little crisper, brighter than is real.

If Europe is a cold, dark pool, they know
they’re water candles on it. When they’re gone
they’re leaving less than ripples here to show
how they ignited life with love and shone.