rest and reset

The tyre tracks in my drive way have not yet cooled. They are layered, too many seasons of come-go to distinguish the names of the departure points. I am hauling in bags of left over food and blankets my mother crotched when she was manic. Dumped on the lounge room floor, I ignore them, and loose myself in my first beer for days.

I am leaving again.

Bags unpacked to be packed again, to be unpacked and packed again. I am a carousel of destinations. Last night I slept under Ntaria skies, first quiet night in the community all week. Tonight I rode home through small town roundabouts and watched the largest shooting star I've seen in months descend from the skies like a suicide bomber, like a moths final declaration of lunar love. Tommorrow I'll be back in that rabbit warren city, quipping in bars, wearing my red dust like armour, trying to suck all the authenticity out of the tram lines and wandering aimlessly through places I've forgotten.

I take my dirty laundry with me. I travel dirty, and light.