BRENDAN RYAN

Farm Boys

You can see their utes pulling dust toward the highway
smell the Brut, blue jeans
pressed by their mother
the night’s milking shadowing their palms.

You can tell by the way they arrive
at a decent hour
support the bar with steady conversation,
add weight to the walls
watching girls they cannot talk to.

You can tell by the way they drink
without getting their lips wet
how they listen after a handshake,
study their boots as a woman passes
and five beers later, stories of their father.

You might remember them at the hamburger van
tall as haysheds, still listening
to your opinions, the note
of your girlfriend’s car they will memorise
until the sound of their tyres punishing the gravel
becomes the night,
driving itself home..