The girls and the budgies
The girls are young
and walk and stand
in the dust along the highway
and near the service station
at Eastern Creek.
I don't know how much they make
but they end up in cars in
the cemetery, sucking cigarettes
and other things.
Hair in their faces,
runs in their stockings,
swearing, and calling out, and looking sad,
under the full moon
and bright stars
on peaceful nights.
They remind me of
when I sat in the kitchen
watching budgies make
droppings into their seed,
and into their water,
and the budgies were pretty,
and chattered, and
were frenetic,
but never sang.
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