raisedinkpress

The doctor calls security and I’m escorted from the GP Clinic. A mother looks on curious as I cross the drab carpet. My back aches as I drive to the pharmacy. The pharmacist is kind and offers a range of painkillers. Menthol fills the air and reminds me to pick up some goanna heat. There’s too much traffic on the road to the bottle shop. Red orb taillights glisten as rain hits the windscreen. Dust smears across the glass. It’s been a while. It takes a while to find a parking spot at the grog warehouse. It seems everyone’s here to get their anaesthetic. A young bloke in a shop vest helps carry my carton the car. The rain eases driving home. It seems to go road marker, roadkill, road marker, roadkill. The newspaper mentioned this whole area will be developed soon. They’ll use the gum trees for pulp. There’ll be no roadkill then. I wonder if it’ll bring the rents down. Probably not. Rents just go up. Sometimes I wonder if all this work, breaking my back, is worth it. Money goes in one hand and out the other. I want to buy. But I have doubts about the future. I can drink and take pills to forget the pain, yet I find nothing can stop my worry. Doubts about the future cling to my heart like humpback’s barnacles. We will miss the koalas. I wonder if they’ll take down the signs. Maybe one day koala crossing signs will be rare and hard to find. I pull up in my driveway. The neighbour’s windows open. A familiar news reporter is on the giant screen. It seems they never turn it off. Anaesthetic. It seems we all need one.
I prefer the radio.