War Games
We used to wander the paddocks of Mitchell Grass –
me and my brother –
before Eastridge Estate was in
development
and St Georges Terrace was half a street.
We played war games
around a massive Coolabah.
Someday we’d build our own tree house and
we could fight forever.
I stung myself on some nettles …
and a huntsman got caught in my hair
the last time we played
before they cleared the land.
Joy
Her dad was murdered by his lover
and his lover’s boyfriends—
poisoned him and cut his throat.
Her mum went psycho, now Joy
can’t throw anything away
and said jailbait would be nice.
Driving past the greasy couches dumped on the roadside
between the timberyard and scout hall,
slowing down by the warehouses,
construction businesses, Black Mulberry
and green box sheds,
she parked her Toyota along Fletcher Crescent.
(Storage King) Office, block of 4 (or 8),
vacant lands of yellowed grass,
4WDs, tip trucks, forklifts.
She placed some carboard boxes in her storage shed –
it was nearly full too, just like the others –
came back,
drove again onto Myall Street.
You chose to be what you are, she said,
you know what you have to do …
