The house I grew up in has a long dirt driveway that winds through the bush. There’s a sign with our house number on it, but no gate, and you can’t see the house from the road. In the summer holidays, our town used to get flooded with tourists. They didn’t always notice – or, I suppose, care – that they were wandering onto private land when they followed our driveway into the forest.
In first year at uni, I wrote this poem for a class. Back then, I called it ‘Invasion of Privacy’. Today, I’m posting it under its cheekier and more fitting title.
Halfway up the Driveway
Bogans on their motorbikes with engines roaring
nosy morning walkers who claim to be ‘exploring’
cyclists in Lycra with their shrink-wrapped cocks
all seem to treat our driveway like bloody Goldilocks.
Eucalyptus filled the air, shadows were getting long.
Returning from my daily walk, I’d seen a currawong,
roos and skinks and other creatures wondrous and bizarre
then halfway up our driveway stood an unfamiliar car.
It was an idling hatchback. Its carapace was green.
Not a country car – for, to be honest, it was clean.
Seemed to me they must be lost, not doing any harm
so I thought I’d better point them to the You-Pick cherry farm.
As I approached the driver’s side, I saw in the back seat
a young man, buff and tanned, shirtless in the heat.
The tribal prongs of his tattoo were clear, but not his face.
He had a gel-slimed fauxhawk, and a thumping bass
surged from the radio and bruised the summer air.
I looked in the driver’s window, but no driver was there.
The engine wasn’t idling. No, this car was rocking:
a frantic pounding rhythm that was animal and shocking.
At this, I found my spirit with a righteous rage imbued.
There was a couple in the back – and call me a prude,
but bonking on our driveway, completely in the nude,
struck me as unbelievably, abominably rude.
I knocked on the window and wrenched open the door
and the couple sprang apart and rummaged on the floor
for something, anything, to cover up down there
and I was just so furious, I didn’t even care.
‘’Scuse me, this is our house! Can you leave, please?’
The woman sat up stammering, a towel between her knees.
I slammed the door and left the naked strumpet and her beau
and as for what they thought of me, I guess I’ll never know.
Ever, ahem, walked in on someone? Tell me in the comments!