i was a bartender in three pubs
in this railhead town (last stop before Birdsville
the proverbial Black Stump was never far away
and the stories stay with me-
the dingo trapper who drank so much
his stomach shrank and he could not eat
more than an inch of steak @Christmas
that cheerful aboriginal who drowned in the creek
at the very edge of town
the cemetery where we used to walk on saturday nights
(the liveliest spot was this dead spot)
and the train coming once a week to break the monotony
and take someone else away from Quilpie
When i went back-the folk i knew had died/or moved along
Nothing lasts as long as silence-not poem,not song...
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