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| Poem |
 
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Wallumbilla Chit Chat by Gregory Harvey
 (2 ratings)
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(Tick-tock. Tick-tock.)
What about the weather?
(What about it? Raining. Hot. Depressing. Joyous. What does it matter?)
It’s been a bit unpredictable.
What have you been doing with yourself lately?
(Sitting in a corner of my room, looking at the ceiling, wondering why.)
Not much.
Same.
(Always the same. Always nothing.)
Did you hear about Mr Jinkinson?
What about him?
Passed away a few days ago.
(At least he’s stopped running down the clock.)
What are you doing next year?
(I’m going to go away to university, pretend I care about people, get a degree and then run down the clock for fifty years. Then I’m going to die.)
Going up to uni in Townsville.
What are you going to do there?
(Something equally as pointless.)
Bachelor of Social Work.
What’s that about?
(Money.)
You know. I’ll be a social worker. Help people.
That’s a depressing job isn’t it?
I could think of worse.
(Tick-tock. Tick-tock.)
We need social worker’s out here.
(Why do people pretend they care? Why talk when there’s nothing to be said?)
We need everything out here.
(I’m a hypocrite.)
Why’d you want to be a social worker?
(Why did you want to… what did you want to be? How far are you from it? How long ago were your dreams forsaken in the name of compromise and reality?)
Honestly couldn’t tell you.
(And the next question always is…)
How much does a social worker make?
Listen I’ve got to go.
(I’m bored with you. Come talk to me on your death bed, then you might have something interesting to say.)
Yeah, me too. See ya’.
(Tick-tock. Tick-tock.)
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