Real men

It is still dark when the utes rush by,
Each one going faster than the other,
Fuelled by diesel and testosterone;
Cigarettes glowing red, lighting eyes
In a cabin full of yesterday’s smoke.
It’s too cold this morning for the dog,
Huddled at the back of the tray,
Empty stubbies, plumbing tools;
Arms hunched over the wheel,
Bleary eyes, vague memories
Of last night in the pub, groping
His way through the darkness,
Blondes with long legs, short skirts;
Pissing further than his mates,
Louder, drunker, angrier
Than the next guy, throwing
Punches when nobody looks;
Hair trimmed into a mullet, full sleeve
Of tattoos that have no meaning,
Painted pictures of what it means
To be a real man today.


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