DRY ARGUMENT - A Haibun
Posted: Mon Nov 10, 2014 1:07 pm
DRY ARGUMENT .
by Maureen Clifford © 24/09/10
It was his welcome to town. A ragged putrefying bloated mound of road kill and a couple of black crows stalking arrogantly across the road towards their road kill lunch.
natures undertakers
taking care of business –
putrefaction
One of those towns that if you blinked you missed it. Spanning both sides of the highway – miles from anywhere but close to somewhere. A town out on the mulga plains baking to a crisp in the hot midday heat - where the heat haze shimmering off the bitumen created mirages of lakes in the distance.
Telegraph poles marched relentlessly onwards as far as the eye could see – each connected to his neighbour by wire shackles – their only means of communication. Termite mounds stood on their North South axis like decaying monoliths of a forgotten age, casting barely a shadow at this time of day.
tall shackled shadows
like images from the past -
indigenous slaves
It was like a ghost town. Empty spaces waiting for the end – which was nearly here from the look of the place. One service station – closed now – with its pump rusted and dry and its windows boarded up. Red sand thick across its forecourt and the sign dangling askew at rakish angle advertising petrol, cold beer, meat pies- last for 300 kilometres.
A red phone box stood empty, minus phone - with all its glass panes shattered. On the other side of the highway stood the pub – a run down, paint starved, lackluster building. Iron roof red with rust, dust covered trees and shrubs limp and listless around its perimeter. Weatherboards sagging, verandah posts listing as if it too had given up all hope.
disconnected –
in so many ways
for so many reasons
A dog – thin, brown, nondescript lay on the verandah in the shade – flat out like a lizard drinking and too lazy to stir his stumps. The old fellow sitting on the bench behind him said a few mumbled words that he didn't catch. “G'day Mate – is the beer good and cold?' Jim asked, bending to fondle the old dogs ear. Obviously the old codger didn’t hear the question as he offered no answer as he slowly hoisted his scrawny frame from the bench and shambled down the three steps to the beer garden. Oh well – maybe he was a solitary type.
no warm welcome -
unresponsive locals
and ice cold beer
The stranger entered the bar – the shade offering welcome relief to the 40 degrees outside. It was clean enough – shabby and run down. Brown carpet, brown walls, brown upholstery – kind of colour coordinated with the dog, Serviceable like – didn't show the dirt and god knows there was plenty of that – acres and acres in every direction.
“What can I get you Mate?” asked the bloke behind the bar. A rhetorical question – doubt they did champagne cocktails here. “Just a beer and a couple of pies will do thanks. Bloody hot today.” The beer duly arrived. Cold, wet, light golden with a froth of foam on top. Nectar of the Gods. Condensation beaded the glass and left a ring of moisture on the wooden slabbed bar top. A fly crawled up to it and started to drink – never let a chance go by.
The pies looked good. Homemade, big, meaty puff pastry encased cholesterol raisers. Gravy rich and brown oozed from their sides and they smelt divine. His first bite was big. God he was hungry. Flaky crumbs of pastry drifted onto his chin. He closed his eyes and embraced the moment, washed it down with the beer. It doesn't get any better than this he thought.
light and flaky
pastry encased richness
of departed souls
Tucker finished, thirst quenched and it was back to business – didn't really look forward to this but it had to be done. No sentiment in business so they say and no doubt the old bloke had known it was coming. Bit of a shame though but ever since the new highway had bypassed the old town things had been heading on a downward spiral. Custom had fallen off – hardly any one used this road any more – beer sales were down. You know how it goes.
He introduced himself to the Licensee Reg Jamieson, the bloke behind the bar, offered his hand and his credentials.
“Sorry Mate” he said handing him the envelope “but this here is the message from the Brewery. They won’t renew your liquor license – not enough beer being sold here now.” Reg knew it was the end – no way can you keep a pub with no beer going.
He took it rather well Jim thought, took it like a man - on the chin. He was relieved by that scenario. He hated the hopeless arguments that sometimes eventuated in these situations or even worse the threats of physical violence to his person. This one was almost a textbook case.
verbosity nil
recriminations avoided
as the axe falls
Two tallies of amber fluid slid across the bar, the glasses wet with condensation, the head thick and foamy. Nectar of the Gods. “Have another Beer Mate" Reg said "No good letting what's left go to waste"
by Maureen Clifford © 24/09/10
It was his welcome to town. A ragged putrefying bloated mound of road kill and a couple of black crows stalking arrogantly across the road towards their road kill lunch.
natures undertakers
taking care of business –
putrefaction
One of those towns that if you blinked you missed it. Spanning both sides of the highway – miles from anywhere but close to somewhere. A town out on the mulga plains baking to a crisp in the hot midday heat - where the heat haze shimmering off the bitumen created mirages of lakes in the distance.
Telegraph poles marched relentlessly onwards as far as the eye could see – each connected to his neighbour by wire shackles – their only means of communication. Termite mounds stood on their North South axis like decaying monoliths of a forgotten age, casting barely a shadow at this time of day.
tall shackled shadows
like images from the past -
indigenous slaves
It was like a ghost town. Empty spaces waiting for the end – which was nearly here from the look of the place. One service station – closed now – with its pump rusted and dry and its windows boarded up. Red sand thick across its forecourt and the sign dangling askew at rakish angle advertising petrol, cold beer, meat pies- last for 300 kilometres.
A red phone box stood empty, minus phone - with all its glass panes shattered. On the other side of the highway stood the pub – a run down, paint starved, lackluster building. Iron roof red with rust, dust covered trees and shrubs limp and listless around its perimeter. Weatherboards sagging, verandah posts listing as if it too had given up all hope.
disconnected –
in so many ways
for so many reasons
A dog – thin, brown, nondescript lay on the verandah in the shade – flat out like a lizard drinking and too lazy to stir his stumps. The old fellow sitting on the bench behind him said a few mumbled words that he didn't catch. “G'day Mate – is the beer good and cold?' Jim asked, bending to fondle the old dogs ear. Obviously the old codger didn’t hear the question as he offered no answer as he slowly hoisted his scrawny frame from the bench and shambled down the three steps to the beer garden. Oh well – maybe he was a solitary type.
no warm welcome -
unresponsive locals
and ice cold beer
The stranger entered the bar – the shade offering welcome relief to the 40 degrees outside. It was clean enough – shabby and run down. Brown carpet, brown walls, brown upholstery – kind of colour coordinated with the dog, Serviceable like – didn't show the dirt and god knows there was plenty of that – acres and acres in every direction.
“What can I get you Mate?” asked the bloke behind the bar. A rhetorical question – doubt they did champagne cocktails here. “Just a beer and a couple of pies will do thanks. Bloody hot today.” The beer duly arrived. Cold, wet, light golden with a froth of foam on top. Nectar of the Gods. Condensation beaded the glass and left a ring of moisture on the wooden slabbed bar top. A fly crawled up to it and started to drink – never let a chance go by.
The pies looked good. Homemade, big, meaty puff pastry encased cholesterol raisers. Gravy rich and brown oozed from their sides and they smelt divine. His first bite was big. God he was hungry. Flaky crumbs of pastry drifted onto his chin. He closed his eyes and embraced the moment, washed it down with the beer. It doesn't get any better than this he thought.
light and flaky
pastry encased richness
of departed souls
Tucker finished, thirst quenched and it was back to business – didn't really look forward to this but it had to be done. No sentiment in business so they say and no doubt the old bloke had known it was coming. Bit of a shame though but ever since the new highway had bypassed the old town things had been heading on a downward spiral. Custom had fallen off – hardly any one used this road any more – beer sales were down. You know how it goes.
He introduced himself to the Licensee Reg Jamieson, the bloke behind the bar, offered his hand and his credentials.
“Sorry Mate” he said handing him the envelope “but this here is the message from the Brewery. They won’t renew your liquor license – not enough beer being sold here now.” Reg knew it was the end – no way can you keep a pub with no beer going.
He took it rather well Jim thought, took it like a man - on the chin. He was relieved by that scenario. He hated the hopeless arguments that sometimes eventuated in these situations or even worse the threats of physical violence to his person. This one was almost a textbook case.
verbosity nil
recriminations avoided
as the axe falls
Two tallies of amber fluid slid across the bar, the glasses wet with condensation, the head thick and foamy. Nectar of the Gods. “Have another Beer Mate" Reg said "No good letting what's left go to waste"