Hard Rubbish
my mother's view
through louvre windows in the laundry
fear of my father
in from ploughing
eating his dinner off the fridge
shadowy light
of my parents' bedroom
their bulging wardrobe
high
double bed
2 4 6 8 .....
somebody licking the plate
hot tea spoon on the back
of the hand
chewy under the table
the places where we sat
bargained for, memorised
view of the dairy, clothes lines
dedication cards on the mantle
piece
a copper reproduction of The Last Supper kneeling
on lino tiles for the rosary
prayer to the biscuit tin
amen to closed bedroom doors
sagging mattresses
cow shit on jeans
strewn across the floor
across the very idea these afternoons
could stretch forever
as if sitting on the front porch
I could tempt fate
listening to
the boobiallas,
semi trailers on the highway
confronting the night
Vickers
RoadSchool kids kicking
a stone for two miles
a shuffling in the
grass,
tyre marks snaking
away from a rail crossing. The railway line
humming in your ear
magpies on the swoop,
gravel parted by
midday silences as if this is all
there is-
an unnerving stillness. The neighbours'
paddocks
growing more thistles
than your own,
their worlds glimpsed
between cypress trees -
cool shadowy places
where men drink
in parked cars
on Monday afternoons
and cattle dogs
pick over the bones of dead cows.
A woman's eyes
squinting at
a dust cloud closing in
too fast for a local-
a salesman, a stranger hitting
all the potholes
unaware of what
a road can give.
A dutiful wave and
back to her washing the road echoing
departure, departure
as she rushes between
five clothes lines
and her children hopping off the
school bus
retracing their
steps in gravel
kicking stones
all the way home.
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