The churning red storm billows behind our rusty old Ute
Thick, rutted tires haul us further from our home
“Ya beaut. Ya beaut”
The crazy cockatoo cries, preening his yellow crown.
I watch forlornly as the rolling hills are sliced by harsh geometric blocks
And the grass is drowned in black, oozing tar
The men slide by in their sleek suits and the women flounce in their frilly frocks.
Dad swings onto the drive of a bland, grey house
Plastic trees with glass pebbles stand guard by the door.
Gaunt faces peek over manicured hedges,
“Hello, nice to meet you,” those fake smiles beam
Disdainful, perky noses upturn at the smell of the fresh country air
Untouched and polluted by a false smell in a can.