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Father and the Cordial Factory

Graeme Hetherington

Jan 01 2012

1 mins

(Rosebery, Tasmania)

To make up for a belting he
Would offer as a privilege work
With him at night bottling pop in

A shed for distribution round
The shops and pubs in West Coast towns.
But I was glad if one went off

In his face tense behind a wire
Mesh mask; and sitting in the back
On crates that weighed the ute down to

The tyres over potholes, I’d hop
From star to star, until I fell,
Tired out, into the dark of sleep,

To be startled awake by “Can’t
You lend a man a bloody hand,
I didn’t bring you here to dream”,

His visage above me as black
As if he’d switched the heavens off,
Without a twinkle to redeem.
 

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