Tug Dumbly # 45 - Sunday Morning Walk, Nimbin

Sunday Morning Walk, Nimbin

Along the lane, under the tree that killed it    

a car       

airbags exploded, passenger door burping

to the cows.

I give it a forensic.

Recent, but not totally fresh.

No cobwebs yet, though stereo

and hubcaps jacked.

Nose punched to a V by the tree.

Scraps of police tape.

Probably not fatal.

Pretty intact.

(But who am I to judge true impact?)

There’s a salting of glass on the floor  

a kid’s book, some burnt cd’s

and coins

like the coins I found as a kid

on the floor of that wreck in the police impound

that backed onto the primary school

the ones I stole and washed the blood off

and used to buy a flying fox.

My mother turned me into the cops.

I confessed.

Funny thing, she didn’t suspect.

There was no need to spill.

It was a seamless crime.

But then I’ve got this confessional streak a mile wide

have always felt compelled to tell

to split the proceeds

of a guilty conscience.

Some might see that as noble.

I’ve come to see it more as attention seeking

by other means.

I leave the coins this time,

though there’s maybe enough for a coffee.

But I’ve learned something about consequences, karma

and the kind of guilt you perversely befriend.

I’m really not all that Zen.

But hey man, this is Nimbin.  

And I’m fifty, not ten.