What Katy Did
'Yep, they're me tits,'
announced Katy to maul-inclined
boss in back seat of taxi.
Instant deferential withdrawal
and slow smile from me, in front
with driver, Melbourne-style.
Raven-haired Katy,
with that slight triangular gap
between her front teeth.
Katy who allowed me
to bask in her Irish glory
as I squired her to inner city pubs
on nights when she was free
of her biker boyfriend
whose nights out with club mates
were to be unencumbered
by 'ducks on the pond'. Eyes,
male and female, traced her every move.
Katy whose sweet smile
could snap to abuse mode,
particularly mid-drinks session.
The Dan O'Connell, The Clyde,
North Fitzroy Arms, all happy
to take Katy's money until she turned,
reserving particular hostility
for anyone in uniform.
'I'll sing you a song, it won't
take long. All coppers are cunts'
a favourite. 'The second verse,
same as the first,' she'd embellish.
$20 in 1977 would get you well sozzled
in Melbourne. Katy allowed fifty.
We drank beer by the jug.
At work in our Flinders Street office,
she'd shuffle to my desk in tight jeans,
cork clogs, red, yellow and green smock-top,
as soon as the tea trolley wheels clanked
and shivered from the lift. We did the Age
cryptic crossword together at morning tea
which was never over till the puzzle
was done. And initialled with our scrawls.
One glare from Katy kept bosses at bay.
On a flexed-off summer afternoon
Katy jumped in my white Morris 1100,
bound for Bulleen's Sentimental Bloke.
At outdoor tables we settled in to beers
until Katy got hot. And exclaimed. Loudly.
A behemoth from the next table peeled off
his white t-shirt and offered it to Katy
who withdrew to the Morry, de-smocked
and emerged cool and clinging.
Taking our leave $100 later, behemoth heyed
'What about my shirt?' Winking at me, Katy
ordered, 'Car park. Start her up.' I did.
I like to think they still talk in C J Dennis-land
of Katy's released stupendous norks
as she returned stripped tee to sudden applause
and bounced all the way to Morry and me.
bw
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