Where Logan Rd and Creek intersect there used to be an old
gas station that looked beat even when it was new. You could
feed a fuel-pump shiny 20-cent pieces at any hour of the day
when petroleum was 17-cents a litre. The solid steel rods of the
tram lines were stapled into the Earth, under Kagaar Mabul;
home of the sleeping echidna mountain, watching over us all.
No one needed to own a phone but phone booths were
essential for kissing your steady-one; JC 4 MM TRUE LUV 4
EVA scratched into the concrete floor. There was a time no
child would ponder going missing and our folks had little idea
where we were anyway, until dinner was ready. And you never
wasted coin going into Kentucky Fried Chicken until a special
occasion, when we all could afford to dream like Kerouac...
Samuel Wagan Watson