Mr. Daniels shuffles his veiny feet
like wet towels across the lino,
through the plastic fly curtain to the lounge,
swills the dregs of the stubby on the TV table
and between racing results and tabloid comics
taps swollen fingers to Top 10 country hits.
“Get us another beer, darl, the footy’s next.”
Darl sighs all the way to the kitchen and back again.
She smells of Sundays and scones,
a dutiful cow of a wife.
He doesn’t even notice the knife.
