On the death of Young Joe
Last night the rubber fishtailed
despairing graffiti.
The young men sat around the
tankstand, drinking.
Their Blundstones crushed
tinnies underfoot.
Fingers denuded the oval
where squatting on haunches they muttered and
mourned and howled like dingoes,
shattering the smeary silence
of grief with bewildered memories.
Tonight the only sound is
wind in the high gums
and the muted growl of
a V8 way down in the valley.
Even the sky has drawn its veil
in sorrow, the moon is in hiding
and it’s left to the street lights,
bouncing off garbage bins,
to usher Death out of the neighbourhood.
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