|
Day One
I. ARRIVING IN BREWARRINA
2. Stranger In Town
The stranger in town arrives at the end of the street
with a shadow cast down from a big slouch hat.
Or wearing that constellation look,
& been around overcoat.
Lanky & striding, bone thin underneath.
The town opens its shutters,
its dusty eyes, to watch:
smashed in streetlife, beneath broken street lights,
or a stale blood stain along the side of buildings,
or bars on shop windows, in shade or in the sun.
The stranger orders a first drink at the bar.
The clothes are different, the walk,
the headspace, the width & height.
Her eyes too bright, pants too tight.
She'll be in for trouble if she isn't careful.
It's a suspicious place, you give 'em a wave
& they don't wave back.
They don't like anything out of the ordinary.
It's small town & getting smaller by the minute,
made smaller by the minds
& all that talk
& it's built in prejudice & grudges,
that just won't shift
& hot claustrophobia, hotter each summer.
Each new drought
brings no relief, no town spirit.
All its potential lost,
like a hot old dog shaking off water,
tired & cranky with nothin' better to do,
other than knowin' everybody else's business.
It's as though, once this stranger arrives,
the town will shift
in some small way,
into something noticed by the outside.
That it will be startled & woken up, like an owl in the afternoon.
A few houses go up in revenge fires, black & white,
both at once this time, that nobody's lit
& up near the cotton crops, the river flows backwards,
even when the pump's switched off.
The stranger could be blamed for a number of things
& may be praised, or made the Festival Queen,
or could just be ignored,
kept at arms length, at least for the first round.
The claustrophobic town gossip shutting itself in.
Then the Channel Two camera crew
jumps off the plane,
checking the time at the dusty airport.
Some roly poly bushes roll in: it's two o'clock.
Later that day,
the town lies to itself then lies to the cameras.
Puts on its Sunday best for the Sunday Review.
But it's the outright silence that talks.
The averting of the gaze.
The silver sigh from a stand of mulga.
The stranger holding up a second drink,
a third, a fourth.
The plane turning on its wing to the east,
with its cargo of cynical surface reporting.
Leaving Brewarrina so soon,
so it can lie back down at the pub
with its feet up & relax. |
