Breakfast

I lift a bowl from the dishwashing rack

and wipe it on my shirt

ready for Weet-Bix.

Dad walks in, grunts hello

and sits down to tie his steel-capped boots.

‘The Magna’s blown a head gasket,’ he says.

He looks out the back window

to where the car should be.

‘How will Mum get to work?’ I ask.

The door to their bedroom is closed.

Mum’s still asleep –

or tired of arguing.

‘We’re working that out,’ he says.

‘Where you going today?’ I ask.

‘Adelaide,’ he answers.

I offer him the Weet-Bix

as if it’s enough to get him

across the Hay Plain.

He shakes his head.

‘Steel girders, west,

bottles of wine, east,’ he says.

‘And a chance to get drunk

in the middle of nowhere,’ I joke.

Dad smiles, reaching for the pan.

‘Scrambled eggs, buttered toast

and the risk of a heart attack,’ he says.

‘What do you think about out there?’ I ask.

I imagine Dad driving the rig across the plain,

a storm cloud on the horizon,

flocks of cockatoos in the fields,

music on the stereo.

‘Whether the bloke driving towards me

is about to fall asleep,’ Dad replies.

He stirs the egg mixture with a fork

and pours it into the frypan.

‘And how many miles

before I pay off the truck,’ he adds.

‘I could get a job over the holidays,’ I say.

Dad slides the spatula under the mixture,

flipping it before lifting the pan away

from the heat.

He tips the eggs on toast

and pulls back the chair before sitting.

I pass him the salt

and he smiles.

‘Work is forever,’ he says.

‘Enjoy school while it lasts.’