Heat
It’s an
unpredictable
day.
Eight thirty in the morning
and not a hint
of cloud.
Early Spring,
trees limp,
air chill,
but somewhere, hidden in there, is a hint
that maybe the heat’ll turn up today,
like,,
heat that properly belongs in the Summer blast of February.
The heat that makes everything shine, blaze, and shimmer
like the mirage
that makes a wet spot
in the distance
on the Hay Road
that’s so straight that you drive for hours without moving the wheel,
and your car becomes a bullet
aimed at the heart of a city of mystery,
a city in the middle of a great plain,
a city that would never count
as a city around here, in the real cities
that locals in Hay call .
Bushfire Season is coming,
walking down the Calendar Road like
a nasty dark man in jeans, boots, and T-shirt,
like Flagg in that Stephen King novel,
with nothing good on his mind,
leaving only ash and destruction
in the wake of his boots that
click
click
click
on the highway.
I’ve got to
go out
in the middle
of the day
for a few things,
pick up cigarettes
—hoping to get them cheap—
—hoping the heat won’t turn up—
—the sky’s already shimmering
in the distance—
I’ve got to
be home
in time
for the grocery
delivery
—they’re delivering water, too, ’ —
I don’t know
when
sometime
in the afternoon
or evening.
It’s an
unpredictable day.
