The Precious Organisation

Standing at the mouth
of the stank, bloated creek
where the green algae rasps
with the foul, corrupted burps of pond-life --

I shudder at the thought
of diving in
to retrieve the gold.

Stale bread has been chucked on the ridge
and makes a humble meal for me.
Eating there in the dust
the cast-off snack of a rabid dog
I know I cannot do this alone.

I lost the precious metal
when I was diving for abalone
in 1972.
I had a mustache then.

Now it's time to form an organization
to take back what is rightfully ours.
I nod, and finish my meal in the sulphide mess,
scribbling a business plan on an old roadmap
in the beige dust before sunset.