Prawns the size of Lobsters

I meet a woman I havent seen in three years
and she invites me to dinner with a friend
who is a photographer. We take a bus
and buy two bottles of wine. We are good
with our directions. We cut corners and arrive
off a main street in Newtown.
They show me the pictures G took on their cattle
drive. They are travel writers and go
on press junkets and piss tourist boards off
when they mention the beach is nice, but you
might get blown into the water by jet aircraft
lifting off. G lives in an apartment with her
boyfriend, an apartment with a glass garage
door onto a verandah and the rent is $370
a week. On the CD is David Kilgour. The photos are
gorgeous: cropped horse's heads, wranglers
looking off to the left, a ten year old boy
with a new cowboy hat, the shed skin of a snake,
a man shoeing a horse, a tourist in a pink
striped shirt and bug hat that make her
look like she's beamed down from the planet
full of barber shops. They take me out to
dinner in Newtown and share a bowl of prawns
the size of lobsters.