Trust the Boys at Troys

South Road, Morphett Vale, night
I'm nineteen, and,
Streetlights loom a promise
Of Hinton's California, or
Kerouac's down, down, down
In the Denver doldrums.

But when I look around
It is still Morphett Vale
South from Junk-food corner
And I'm surrounded by,
Deserted car yards, full of
Holden Camiras and Mitsubishi Colts.

While the salesmen with mustaches
Earrings, and gel in their hair
Are home drinking West End Super
In leather recliners, placed
Before Sony Black Trinitrons.

While their platinum wives
Scrape t-bone scraps
Into bowls for
Overfed chihuahuas, and
Stack Westinghouse dishwashers, and
Dream their dreams
Of what might have been.