steeped in dust and dying daylight,
this country forgets how far is not far
until walking becomes waiting
for a bus that never
did come.
we do not live in towns
we stretch between rivers and roadhouses.
a bloke might find work three hours gone
(assuming he’s got wheels) else
he\'s just a bloke with boots worn out
before payday.
once they saddled their livelihoods—
muscle and hooves, —tethered
to the promise of feed & fence.
now? we ride pistons,
we gallop petrol.
a car isn’t luxury—
it’s your permission to try.
and i— flat broke & half-mad with tomorrow—
need mine as if yesterday were waiting
at the end of the drive.
.