Dirty Poetry by Teresa
His whole life is surrounded with numbers. Measuring, calculating, and solving problems. In a massive hole in Central Queensland, the coal mine called Goonyella Riverside, Trent Chambers breathes in every tiny angle along a fifty metre pit wall.
His work is an assembly of small measurements adding into big and important picture. Usually, he sees it as something rather poetic. Angles and triangles working together. Telemetry in motion. But today, the mercury is reading high thirties. A new roadway is to enter the pit and his calculation isn’t working out. Frustrated, Trent sits on the hot ground and closes his eyes. “It’s too bloody hot,” he says out loud in defeat.
After some time, he hears a bird chirping and a slight wind muffles in his ears. The hot sun bakes the coal stained earth around him. It looks luminescent. For some reason, he’s inspired. He counts a rhythm. Then a rhyme. And before long he’s carried away, measuring, calculating and solving his frustration with words.
On a piece of scrap paper, he scribbles down his first ever poem. Quiet chuffed with his efforts and feeling better, he folds the dirty paper carefully into his shirt pocket.
That night he welcomes his wife with a kiss and whispers “I did something for you today.”
He unfolds the untidy piece of paper.
His wife, rather curious, watches his face change into something rather boyish.
“A dirty poem for a hot bird I know…” he starts.
She smiles. He smiles.