its residents stay inside, mostly
keeping to themselves
like a wicketkeeper throwing a
ball against the wall with gloves on

the roadhouse is the centre
it is here Julie waits
upon tables of distant strangers
upon a new day, some day

sometimes it just gets too much
so she retreats to the kitchen
and talks to Greg, who has
been working here for years

flipping burgers and frying chips
he knows what it is to cook
there is no time for coagulation
when the oil is hot for frying

down the road the recluse lives
held up, holed up in his shack
newspaper stacked to the sky
margins scrawled with red pen

the stories usually speak for themselves
but sometimes they need commentary