Far North Queensland Motel
High feathery leaves on a huge squat poinciana,
slick green savannah palms, overlooming date palms,
canopy ferns, the odd spidery white-flowered daffodil
all visible from open-slid rear glass wall-tall doors.
Eye follows cracked path to crazy-paved saltwater
pool surround. But what's that two-toned, high-pitched
whistling sound? There, again and now a third time
so no mere repetition, a pattern. Emerge from inside,
pad down to pool end. Thar she blows: pool filter,
motel stay wrecker, outside time spoiler. Mrs Motel
offers to switch off the timer and does, allowing
brief poolside recline but tattooed hubby reverses
the procedure, filches out a few leaves, meets
the eyes of no bookreading guests, lurches off.
What, I suppose, can you expect for a hundred
bucks a night? Do you want courtesy with that?
bw
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