I know his type:
Half-past midnight, he hoons down the street,
sights a fantasy falling chequered flag,
something to outrun before the intersection.
“Sweet, can’t beat my fuel injection,” he’ll say,
and gun it.

I know his type:
His dual cab ute has never seen a tool
in the tray, but the driver’s a bit of one.
Works in a suit, in front of a computer.
Weekends he polishes the duco and drills
the exhaust.

I know his type:
He sits in the traffic next to me, obscenely
rev - rev - revving, waiting for the cross
light orange then red. Once he's
seen it, that’s his sign to jump
the green.

I know his type:
Door handle of his monster
ute is lost above my roof,
so I can’t even see if he’s
a he or a she (But I know
It’s a he).

I know his type:
Window open arm hanging to ash
his fag, blasting out his crap hate rap
and swearing with his mate
about what he did to his date last night,
pissed as a fish.

I’ll fix his type,
one day, while he sits there surveying
the road that he owns. Next week I’ll
buy an oxy for my boot, and stop beside
his overgrown ute before he floors it, and weld
his doors shut.
			12 March 2024