from the sticks

Poem #50 from Small Town Kid

Back to Small Town Kid – Introduction

there’s chicken shit
on the boots of the boy
who came to the smoke
from north-east victoria

speaking too slow
and walking with a roll
grown on steep murmungee hills
above white foggy mornings
his eyes are as wide
as collins and elizabeth
streets that stretch
so much longer than a day
with the dog and the traps

he’s some kind of a wonder
probably it’s the weathered hat
or maybe the patchwork sheepskin coat
but he’s surely now
a captive
and a wonder

© Frank Prem 2009

Small Town Kid Poem 51: role to play


3 thoughts on “from the sticks

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