Brutal and Beautiful

During the week
he sweated on Central’s
sunny roads
smashing black tar
into cracked brown earth.

He spent his weekends
in the safety of his
state-house fiefdom;
sucking cigarettes, drinking
Speight’s and watching
the gee gees.

Then on Mondays
he was gone again.

We kids knew no different:
the stench of stale fags,
peeling yellow weatherboards
filtered sunlight
and Mum’s tired tears
slipping down her
wet bruised face.

She died from too many years
of having her heart broken
by the thing she loved the most:
the smell of her summer’s road.

Today her husband
sits alone
with his arrogance,
dusty television and
overflowing ashtray.

Blood holds us together
brutal and beautiful
he is my Dad.

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