Maccas

Dear Karin sitting in MacDonald's/up to page one hundred and seventy one
of How Do Detectives Make Love/and I'm not sure if I can read
any more without crying/the kids are playing chasey in happy
happy Maccas land/& the next poem is 'The Neglected Child'/
& my children are laughing and sweating/and I'm crying inside/their
Dad's off to W.A. tomorrow to marry/and I'm getting left behind
again/he always did leave me behind/he came to the Bav. Tav.
with the kids & Marie/and I said 'but you never listened to any
of my poetry all the time we were married'/& he still didn't
listen/but Marie thinks it's beautiful/& I hope Marie stays
beautiful/'cause Dave is Dave/Dave of the sheep caesarean/
sew it up and leave it to die/it doesn't feel any pain/left some
water and hay at one end/its dead twin lambs at the other.

None of the Mums look happy at MacDonalds/the children
eat in grim silence with eyes outside/fat and fun/fat and fun/
sugar it's all buns & meat & pamphlets for diabetics for what
they can't eat/but the newspaper's free/if you read it here/and the
cup of coffee is bottomless/though it looks round and white to
me/not like the moon...

and some of the mums make me feel like the gorilla-ess
amongst them/how do you get to be a real woman/I just
had kids/lived a hidden life/like now I'm hiding behind
my paper fortress/ink runs like blood/this is my life/& I
never learnt how to be a woman/there must be something I've
missed/they look so real.

Some of the Dads have jobs/most don't/you can tell by
how they dress/how their faces cave in/how long it takes to smile ...

all the kids look happy when they play.

© Liz Winfield