And, after all this time my heart still f l u t t e r s

when a queer person walks through those automatic doors.
As if femmes don’t need fuel

or diesel dykes don’t chain smoke twin packs of B&H

or the gender-bent darling from Railway Street could head

to The Gateway without a canister of gum. 
///
A couple of hairy bears sashay their way through salty snacks

before heading to the BJs fridge for fulfilment.

The top locks arms with his better half, scanning the room.

He clocks me, smiles and reverts his attention back to the cabinet of curiosities.

Foreplay? With a spectator?
One of my regulars has just pulled up on her beat-up, blue BMX.

Sent her girlfriend Kellie up to Kempsey.

You know for prosperity?

Some shifts, I wonder how long she’ll be in rehab for
whether Kay will keep her Hamo South-door wide open for when she gets out.
Variant people doing a variety of things

unmasked in public

open,

aware

& others not.
Others?

High as fucking kites buying cherry pie

stuffing sugar sachets down their pants when they think my back’s turned.
I’m here watching them

one-by-one

go about their

day-to-day.
The voyeur in me is aroused and yet the conversations

I’m involved in surely aren’t mine to have.
In comes Jimmy.

Gets a kick when I call him ‘Keef’

locked hair adorned with coins and twine.

He shows me his latest creation, a necklace featuring
“a blackfella on a crucifix”.
Jimmy has always called me brotherboy

catching himself on occasions when he slips up and spits, ‘sis.’

One of those fellas who knows your story before you unhinge your trap.
He tells me of his dreaming:

of his mob back out Mooree way

of his tumultuous love affair with the pipe

of how he wishes he had his culture to help cut the noose.
His stories draw me in

tied to the prison inkings on his forearm.

His personal style is unearthly.

Some nights I swear, if he wasn’t koori

he would be on the cover of Vogue,

distressed denim and leather.
If he had a phone, Jimmy would have a couple of thousand likes on his OTDs.

Instead, he is here entertaining me,

 scratching up cigarette change.

Whenever he is short I cover.
///
The outline of two figures appear on the security screen

distorted by the damaged wing of a lost bogong .

I watch the women dart across the car park from the hotel next door

clad in robes,

concealing their bodies like weapons.

Lowering my eyes

I exchange goods

green note,

no bag,

no receipt.