By | 15 May 2023

If he were angrier, it would be better
for them. She would like that more.
Want him in a way she can’t anymore.

They can’t be in the car anymore. Camp
in an empty lot beside a football oval off the highway
a few hours north of Melbourne.

Black cockatoos laugh at sunset.

At 4 a.m., a car whips in. Gravel fireworks, high
beams catching the apple-green tent fly. He imagines

they can see him. Silhouetted, as his toes
steal glances at her heels pumiced
smooth by seabed. The lovers—

frenzied in that focused, eloquent, ice way.
She trusted that psycho who pranks her at work
threatens him

threatens to rape his kids—
she ate his come. Lent him four grand.

And she won’t loan him? Won’t trust him? Is she going to
shit why’d they take this exit?

Boot in the door if the toilet’s locked.
Go on the ground. Go on the ground, dog.

Where’s his pipe? It’s not under the seat and if she doesn’t
find it in ten seconds. Where’s that fifty bucks?

Awake now, she holds him. He holds
the wrench from the vestibule. A man who longs to run
clean as boiled water

gums rust off the wrench head. So many addicts
roam in couples like birds, he thinks,
outside sadness, retooled for murder.

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