I am those blow up dolls
that stand by car yards
with giant arms noodling into the sky
the road is loaded with surfboards and bikes
kids press windows with cheeks
I see this with eyes that don’t blink, I blast
a perfect polyester smile but I have no lips, I’m made
from the same materials as hot air balloons
repurposed for this sale
I am those shifts in the air that set in
on some highway between Bunnings
and a 7–Eleven when the air–con slips
a few degrees—just enough to make the skin bristle
in the night my extremities wilt, I hunch
over a reduced Holden
That’s how I slipped into this car, staring
at your profile in the dark, a stray
occy strap flaps from the roof racks
I begin to define a shape
I let the wind hit my face
I’ll drive home alone