A hostel in Cairns

 

Stepping in and hitching

on the wheels of savings,

now in a hostel in Cairns.

 

I’m 35 this year. 35.

That mean something?

It sounds like it should

in a hostel in Cairns.

 

Over dinner,

beneath gazebos,

beside dorms,

I wanna tell this couple

not to do it.  

Perhaps return to Scotland, kids.

Get some land in a sleepy town.

Give us stacks of babies

and feel the warmth of it all:

the dog at your feet,

the child in your arms,

the love in your bed.

Return.

Ya really wanna break each other down?

Think of the honey,

the toast

and morning porch

you built with your mates.

Don’t be charmed by the road

—the first temptation of many.

Go back.

 

Do I even believe that though?

Do I?

 

Too late anyhow.

We’re here.

Adults of the adolescence.

Was it worth it in the end?

Maybe.

Maybe not.

Too late anyhow.

 

I’m 35

in a hostel in Cairns.

Life’s canyon has roared

with torrents,

cascades,

so much song,

so much noise

coming up to 15 years.

For now

it’s emptied out.

Trickles down escarpments

here and there;

thunder far away.

A hostel in Cairns.

 

I stare at the ceiling before the lights go out

and think of the Scottish couple

and hope they make it.