An old busker

He was an old busker he said,
but not before regaling me with
shocking tales of his wanderings.

I listened half amused but truly entertained.
This small white-bearded man, my wife later
exclaimed, could have been mistaken for

Santa Claus; which explained perhaps why
I didn’t recognise him. We shared a belly
laugh or two and found enough common

ground to stamp around. He did nasho back
when I was officer cadet, we both knew Les
Hiddens and wondered how the Vietnam Vets’

plans to establish a retreat for the victims of PTS*
and dioxin distress at Kalpowar were progressing.
He’d lived on a pineapple farm a bit

north of where we’re growing avocados
‘tho he was wise enough to make his own
way out in the World without a stooped back

or eternal complaints. When we were solid
and simpatico he wandered over where
we had our market stall, leaned against

the ute and played his ancient squeeze-box,
sang a few leery out-West ballads and variegated
bush anthems, recited a bit of Banjo Patterson

without the drop of a hat. That was what he
used to do to rustle a quid way back when,
and believe me, he was bloody good.

He could have been my best mate easily
and stayed forever but the houseboat he
and his wife lived on in Broadwater awaited.

I learned all that because
I gave him a ripe avocado.
© I.D. Carswell

(*post traumatic stress)