Yaka Yaka

Endless troopie hours
         between craters and dunes;
there was no need to speak.
         We pull up at what’s left of a town.
He in the Wu Tang Clan gear
         and red, yellow and black bandana
shows me where his nephew hung
         himself from a playground crossbeam
after too many sniffing hours.
         Wind from battered pink plains
brings blanketing dust, heat,
         a wave of Painted Finches.

Lorne Johnson (NSW)

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