She smiles as she puts down the phone:
he’s calling from Kempsey
and he’s nearly home.
He’s been gone six days
on the coastal road.
She’s prays sometimes for his final load
but she knows.
She’s humming as she’s straightening the sheets,
thinking of his style
as he walks down her street.
She was twenty five,
working at the Golden Fleece.
He dropped his knife and he asked for tea.
Asked for her hand on his bended knee
and she said ‘Oh, yes please’.
Though these days he’s too tired,
too busy or too wired
he’s still the same sweet man she married.
And though she takes to sighing
and worries about him dying
she wouldn’t want him changed
because she knows that’s just his way.
She thinks sometimes some kids would have been nice.
Still, she’s got the dogs
and they’re cheap at half the price.
And you know dogs get fleas
and she’s got her citrus trees,
she’s got bingo at the Leagues.
She’s got everything she needs.
Now he’s talking to the dogs out on the lawn.
Coming through the door with his name tag still on,
he likes the way she looks there,
in the place that she cooks there,
likes the way she cooks ‘em:
just a little pink in the middle.
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