New Poetry by Ron Wilkins

Redistribution of wealth in the western suburbs

It was a time survival skills

honed in the depression years still lingered.

We made do with the little we had, augmented a trifle

from the pockets of those who had too much.

Semi-rural, seasonal surplus from backyard orchards

and chicken coops passed in wicker baskets

over paling fences with no expectation of return.

Back doors were unlocked.

Stealing from neighbours was unthinkable

but thieving from the factory with the connivance

of a mate at the gate, was done with a sense of bravado.

Old Diggers knew you needed an angle to get an edge.

My uncle Jack—union rep at the meatworks—

pilfered beef enough to feed his growing family.

      Few could afford cars and the rattletraps were

always breaking down. Learning to fix them was essential.

My car had no petrol gauge—easy to forget

to fill her up when a dark-haired beauty was sitting close.

Vehicles abandoned on lonely roads were fair game. 

With back seat tool kits we were like piranhas moving swiftly

in the liquid darkness to rip out vital parts

from the engine, number plates, battery and electricals,

spanners glinting like teeth in the torchlight.

Attackers vanishing into shadows before the dawn.

Next night others arrived, as if lured by the smell of a kill,

to gut the interior—dashboard, seating, steering wheel .

Within a week, the chassis was naked and forlorn.

Mates called the local pub ‘The Office’—a virtual shopfront

where goods were permanently ‘On Sale’.

Those days it was not surprising

the things that fell from the back of a truck.

- © Ron Wilkins 2021

Ron Wilkins is a geologist living in Sydney. His literary work has been published in Australian Poetry Anthology, Antipodes, Best Australian Poems, Cordite Poetry Review, Plumwood Mountain, Quadrant, Westerly (imminently), French Literary Review and other journals. His hobby is the identification of the more than 900 species of Eucalyptus trees.