for Paul Muldoon


The SS Commodore with tinted windows

will make the run to Perth in a few hours,
the stereo flat-tack and the driver pumped up,

hanging out but intoxicated by the prospect
of picking up, the hollowness filled with bravado:

the deal better not fuck up or heads will roll.
A week’s wages and a bunch of mates

who’ve put cash up front — the whole town
speeding off its face and strung out,

they’ll be counting the hours
and tempers will flare, blokes

knocking girlfriends about,
bongs strained and beer on beer drained

to help them get through. The town is growing —
spreading out — out there ploughing,

listening to the call of the tawny frogmouth,
and then a run through the fast-food outlet.

Later, it’s a mate’s place for speed and videos.
Not yet big enough to hide ripe-offs

those with contacts are jacking up the profits —
the chemists, forcing frowns back

as they sell fit-packs and dieting tablets,
are asked to fill city prescriptions.

The older blokes are mumbling
at The Club — “one of them young blokes

shore two hundred the other day
and the next day couldn’t finish a run…”

The cops are getting rough — stripping cars
and raiding farm houses. They

have their chosen ones — the boys
in the footy team, the girls who do favours.

The world grows small fast — the town
moves out to the farms. The drive-ins

have shut down and fast music
comes into the Country Hour

like Armageddon. On a back verandah
a farmhand says to his girlfriend:

“I love you… the sunset is magic”.