I drove the car
up the Kuranda range today, the trailor laden
with water-blasters, hoses and fittings.
I didn’t say much.
I dropped off the boys, and left them behind so I could wander about the market,
wishing I was barefoot.
I still blended in.
No makeup, except I could have worn jandels or thongs instead of proper shoes,
and a larger dress to hide my burgeoning bust.
It was like a dream.
A technicoloured rainforest dreaming with chunky wrought iron seats,
a chair, dangly shells
and driftwood creations all twisted and twisting,
(hung from gold-plated fishing line).
of trinkets for our fair tourists. Opals and artist prints
priced at over $28
thousand dollars! Too rich for this hippie and the majority of the locals I imagine.
Still, I managed to find
my way to the old market,
find a churro place that served a cheap eggs bene.
I didn’t want snottie egg whites to no avail.
I cried writing my poem, ‘the Mummers Dance’.
I secretly wished someone would magically notice my fragmented aura,
and offer my broken arse a foot rub
or a clearing energy
but it never came. Hippies are broker than me, mostly.
I changed my mind several times, ending up
back at the car and $21 dollars poorer.
I looked at my bloodshot eyes in the visor mirror,
wondering if I could get away without being seen.
I found my way back,
and sat in the car while they finished up for another two hours.
It wasn’t so bad,
chatting to my Karma in between clenched cheeks, kicking myself for a loo.
I stripped off
all my clothes when I got home and washed myself clean.
I’m still spread-eagled on the bed as we speak.
© Copyright 2018, Jodine Derena Butler & Poetry Out West. All Rights Reserved