I’m sitting in an alpha male’s
piece of shit old car. Lunch break,
30 degrees in the shade,
the sun’s burning down our arms;
and he’s pleased with himself,
you can tell by the way his hands
are touching the wheel
and the way his mouth is touching
his hand-rolled cigarette.
Impassive jaw, he looks away.
Hand to mouth,
mouth to hand,
my fleeting gaze.
Bright, smoked and ugly
the bush is flashing by –
I’m all those things and more,
there’s a wolf’s curve to my spine.
Meg Drummond-Wilson is a first-year Archaeology and History major at the University of Western Australia. She was raised in a fishing village pretending to be a relevant city by bibliophilic parents and a steady diet of Enid Blyton. She currently enjoys poetry, research, gossiping about dead people, Arthurian legend, Australian summers and synthpop. More of her writing can be found at sovteck.wordpress.com.
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