Such dirty work
turning dreaming tracks

into nature strips
that drunks fall over

on Larapinta Drive
and Heavitree Gap

a tribe oversees
the wrecker’s yard

enthusiasts bagging
wing mirrors, sometimes

a door. The traffic lights glow
with spiteful newness

in the pure desert air of June
between Peking Palace

and Mario’s
these arid zones we adapt to

menus feed their sectors of
talk, the lights turn green

Mormons bike home
in charisma dayglo

hamburgers jammed in their saddles
in an abattoir town

the bush philosophers gather round
in the Bull Bar of The Stuart Arms

welcomes you its branding irons
on display unique

surgical instruments
polished with Silvo

the quaint heraldry
of cows are you or have you

ever been a herbalist?
Have you cased this joint?

The white didgeridoo player
rips the tops off beercans

with a surgical hand
still wired for sound.

Next gig: Hotel Bondi.