Poetry

Showering in the Shearers’ Huts, Thargomindah

Green frogs sit and blink, blink and sit like dozens of extras in a B grade horror film. The shower rose spits and starts, spits and runs in hot and cold needles to make me dance, trying to get wet in the sulphur stench of bore water mixed with Palmolive and scoured wool grease that runs my legs in blackened tracks past weeping scars from mulga stakes, the soapy scum around my feet gets deeper and croaks.  

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