You cannot hide my empathy under headlines, nor party fundraisers, or under very large stones. My finger still points, though decorated with union gold, middle class idolatry, cigarette yellowing in rings of university education, it points at an absence, an abscess and I am ashamed of this, yes, but that is not why I point, I am white and priviledged, but that is not why I am allowed to point, I point because something is broken. It drags my feet to town calls above my complacency in comfortable sheets and clean dinnerware. My empathy does not hide in suds nor slogans. Sat aloft my perch, taken to with a rusted axe, chipped and shortened so as to not commit a guilt-driven drive-by on my ancestry, I toke and taunt the image of "Our Australia". Her beauty masked by terror, a wide brown bosom is branded by violence and outbursts of intimidation from cafe Windows and floral collections. Tattooed non-teethers rage at the summit, and those who knock are unanswered.