Northern Suburbs Boys Don’t Cry Over Spilt Milk

"Para Hills, where’s that?"
a quizzical look tells all,
revealing the extraterrestrial nature
of the boy from the northern suburbs.

"Somewhere between Salisbury and Tea Tree Gully."
She nods, as if the picture is clear.

It probably is - visions of drugs, single mums,
code words for immorality and depravity,
wife-bashing, dole-bludgers
filth, coarseness and vulgarity.

Yet it isn’t.

She doesn’t know whether she’s wrong or right,
she's never been north of Gepps Cross.

"That’s a long way from Uni"
"Yes, but some travel further,
from Salisbury North or Elizabeth"

At the mention of these other worlds,
revulsion washes over her face,
noticeable only to the practiced eye

the patronised have a sixth sense

She’s trying to make me comfortable?
As if I need that.
I don’t, and I won’t forget my roots, even when cut off.

She tells me, "See you later" (I doubt it)
with such unfelt feeling
remember everyone - we’re a classless society