We’re cross-legged in the waist-high grass of a vacant lot, three minutes’ walk from Henderson High. Sam Hunt is coming to do a gig at our school. It’s no good blaming teachers or the system or the wild West Auckland culture. He’s a good sort, Mr Stubbs, and he likes my poetry, even though it’s bad. He’s the one who introduced our class to New Zealand poets Sam Hunt, Hone Tuwhare, Jan Kemp and James K. Baxter.