Five in the afternoon
The Cairns trip ends like workdays do
Bodies piled high on the airport line
Little bottles of wine glassing glassy eyes
I’m feeling rendered.
My hangover headache whinnies
I look at my luggage

Conspiring silent, deeply alone
Old Mate’s in the Daintree
Hot soaked to his bones
Punching in numbers on the dirty guide phone
He’s prospecting for gold
He’s prodding for cassowaries
He’s a little disappointed. He’s ready to leave.

Five in the afternoon
No longer a traveller, again a commuter
In my mind’s eye I pile stones high
The train lurches with lazy violence
Time only moves when you don’t want it to
I’m feeling forgetful.
Blue light stains what little I remember
I look at my luggage