DRY ARGUMENT

[Maureen K Clifford]

DRY ARGUMENT


If you blink Mate you will miss it – for it’s only pretty small
Just some empty shops, a phone box and a pub.
A deserted service station with graffiti on the wall
advertising nonexistent fuel and grub.

There’s a line of shackled poles like slaves all heading down the track,
joined at the neck with fetters made of wire.
And termite tombstones north south set, decaying back to back.
It is not a place that sparks a man’s desire.

Two crows stalked arrogant and black across the bitumen
to the stinking mass of road kill on the ground.
It was meals on wheels for this pair, natures garbage men
and both looked enraptured at what they’d found.

Mirages in the distance showed a blue and tree lined lake.
It’s amazing what the old heat hazes conjure.
But travel miles and miles and you will not its shoreline make
these mirages have lured men to death. No wonder.

With temperatures of forty plus the old pub looked inviting,
its old brown dog sleeping in shadowed shade.
On a bench an old bloke sat on the verandah unexciting,
drinking down the dregs of beer for which he’d paid.

I said ‘G’day Mate – Bloody hot - I hope the beer is cold
for I’ve a thirst the Murray Darling couldn’t quench’.
He mumbled something indistinct as to his feet he rolled;
near’ fell down the stairs stumbling from his bench.

I walked into the bar, which was old. Cleanness redeemed
its shabby walls, carpets and stools of dingy brown.
Colour co- ordinated with the dog – or so it seemed
in fact in retrospect it matched with the whole town.

‘What can I get you Mate?’ asked the bloke behind the bar
which I figured was a question just rhetorical;
for I figured cocktails never had been shaken out this far,
just Tooheys and Bundy – liquids metaphorical.

‘A beer Mate if you would and could I also have two pies
for I’m hungry as a horse and twice as dry’
‘No worries Mate’ he answered as he shooed away some flies
‘they won’t be long and they’re homemade – want chips or fries?’

The beer duly arrived it was the nectar of the Gods,
Foam topped and gold. Glass dripping with condensation.
We chatted as I drank – seems life had trampled him roughshod;
but we both enjoyed our easy conversation.

The pies were good. Homemade and big with rich brown gravy dripping
down the golden puffy pastry of their sides.
Cholestrol raisers? That they were – and there was sauce for dipping.
Ruby red, rich ripe tomato for the fries.

Stomach replete, and dry throat soothed – now came the bit I hated
but I had to do it – for there was no choice.
‘I’m sorry Mate’ I said as I sat there with breath baited
‘but the brewery have sent me. I’m their voice.

Your liquor licence soon runs out and they just won’t renew it
for I’m sure you realize your sales are down.
I know that it’s a bugger Mate – I’ve seen it oft before
each time a new road bypasses a town’.

He took it rather well I thought. He took it on the chin.
Took it like a man without a tear.
Well I guess he saw it coming and he knew he couldn’t win
No way you keep a pub that’s got no beer.


Maureen Clifford © 03/11

[Zondrae]

G'day Maureen,

Looks lke you are keeping yourself company at the moment. Well I suppose the first footy game of the season is on the tele. That'swhere the boys will be.

When I started reading this poem I thought I recognised the town but it turned out to be much more lively than the one I had in mind. This particular town had a public phone box that only took telstra phone cards. But you couldn't buy one in the town. The pub/store/ Post office didn't keep them because they went out of date before they were sold. The next thing will be that Telstra will remove the phone box because no one uses it. There's no mobile reception in town either. You have to be in-the-know. If you go up to the gates of the Cemetary, which is along the road to the local tip, you can get reception. But that is on a good day, if you stand on one leg, facing south. I would name the town except they have a poetry competition and I may just go there again one day. I also discovered you get excellent reception half way to the next town.

[Maureen K Clifford]

Oh there's lots of little towns like this one Zondrae . this started out as a piece of prose that I entered in a writing competition and I was/am bored today so have been revamping and doing a lot of poetry about 6 today so far.

Our mobile was like that on the property - if you went to the back paddock about 2 miles from the house and actually climbed the old tree you might get reception. Saw our neighbour once mustering in her blue Volvo which I thought was pretty flash, we had an old Daddo paddock car...No she was trying to get reception on the mobile after we had lost the land line yet again.