A Poem in Seven Counts Against the Man Who Believed in Nothing
“My mother did it tough. She raised me in public housing.
That’s why I fight for people who are doing it tough today.”
~Anthony Albanese, said often, meant briefly~
I. The Card
He carries it always, worn soft at the crease,
laminated in grief, buffed bright with each use –
my mother did it tough, she lived in the commission,
she scrubbed the floors of a country that wouldn’t let her in.
It is a beautiful card.
It has opened every door he ever wanted opened.
He keeps it close to his chest,
not like a wound –
like a weapon.
II. The Commission Houses He Left Behind
There are still women in commission houses.
Right now. Tonight.
While the canapés are passed at The Lodge.
They are not laminating anything.
They are counting the weeks until the rent review.
They are watching their kids leave school
for whatever’s left when opportunity never knocks.
He knows their names.
He knew their names.
He used their names.
He has moved on.
III. Palestine
He stood with the friends of Palestine
before he had anything to lose.
He held the banners. He attended the dinners.
He let the photographs be taken
and filed them under: character, establishing.
Then they gave him the keys
and he locked the door
and there was a ceasefire resolution
and Australia abstained,
and the word abstained
sat in the mouth of the world
like a stone.
There is a woman in Rafah
who has carried the same name
for three generations.
She does not know
that a man in Canberra once held a banner for her.
She does not know his mother’s story.
She has her own.
IV. The Ideology of Convenience
Here is the thing about a man who believes in nothing:
he is very agreeable company
until you need him.
He will march with you.
He will quote your poets.
He will say the names of your dead with the right expression.
He will sign your petition
and smile at the photograph
and fold you neatly away
into the filing cabinet marked: useful, formerly.
V. The Comparison That Shames Him
Say what you like about Pauline Hanson –
and there is much to say –
but she believes in something.
The hate is genuine.
The fear is genuine.
The resentment that built her,
ugly as it is,
is a real thing she really holds.
You can argue with a person who believes something.
You can shame a person who believes something.
You can hold a person accountable
who has the courage of their convictions,
however poisoned those convictions are.
But what do you do with a man who believes in nothing
except his own ascent?
He is beyond shame.
Shame requires something to be ashamed of.
He has already traded that away
for a better office and a car.
VI. The Cost of the Card
Somewhere there is a photograph
of a younger Anthony Albanese
at a rally, at a dinner, at a vigil,
holding something –
a banner, a candle, a child’s drawing,
the hand of someone who needed him.
In the photograph he is looking at the camera
with the expression of a man who means it.
The people in that photograph
still live in the world the photograph was taken in.
Nothing has changed for them
except that he is no longer in it.
He is in a different photograph now.
He has the same expression.
VII. The Card Is Declined
My mother did it tough.
Yes. She did.
And what did she raise you for?
To remember? Or to arrive?
Because arriving is all you have done.
Arriving, and staying arrived,
and spending her suffering
like money you didn’t earn
on debts you will never admit.
The card is declined.
The account is empty.
What is left
is a man in a good suit
who once knew what it meant to be hungry
and chose to forget
because forgetting
was easier than governing.
And that –
that is the only honest thing about him.
© Bakchos, June 2026
