After the demolition derby
of time and neglect
motor bodies rust
in the long grass
I name it
The Ngallagunda Used Car Yard
the fruit of neglect
that runs down the road
and stops here
among poplar gums
Every community has one –
a dump for dead machinery
windows stowed in
bonnets up and twisted
exhaust pipes like
King Browns climbing down
Teenagers shelter inside
gunja smoke curling out
where a window once was
Wheels gone seats out
shell of
a Holden Commodore
from Bunbury
three thousand kilometres away
registration plates dangling
You can smell the rubber
on the highway as the cops chase
kids racing out of one life
into the next