the golden skin of cowgirls

at the end of a brief Warrego sojourn

hungry and gravel strung

after searching for days and only finding emptiness

accompanied by road-trains heading for the slaughterhouse

little piggy eyes staring

through the slats of the trailers

with a beige, yet invisible shit-mist that stays up your nose

and gets into everything

and like the classical lion with a thorn in its paw

Brisbane lurks on the other side of those hills,

smooth green monoliths

tickled by the arias of Harold Blair

as they reflect the silky breeze

that sometimes carries the perfume

from the golden skin of cowgirls:

award winning, lightly browned pastry,

best pies and cream-buns this side of the Great Divide

where the road-trains pause

and truckers chow down on sausage rolls and waves of sweet,

darkened milk

letting piggy buy some time

before the boners get the best of him

nothing out here at the moment but crackling radio waves

that deliver piggy his requiem;

Charlie Pride, easy-over-agriculture-blues