Dirty donga toilets,
With rude pictures
and phone numbers,
With ruder invitations
scrawled on the doors,
Potholed driveway,
Ancient fuel pumps,
But, my Dad always said,
“Rusty’s is cheap”.
It was always where we stopped,
On the way to Brisbane from Dalby,
The station wagon packed with kids,
Saving a dollar or two
Was worth the austerity.
I would always stop at Rusty’s,
But, only if I was by myself,
No one else in my family tolerated,
The dirty donga toilets,
The potholes and the rude service,
To save a dollar or two,
I fell in love with the bacon and egg toasties,
That sometimes had been kept too long,
In the bay marine,
Toasted bread was like rock in the corners,
But I loved the taste that
brought back silly memories of my Dad,
Now when I drive down the highway,
I see the old Rusty’s is gone,
And, yesterday I stupidly cried,
As I drove past the emerging construction,
I am not sure why, but perhaps it was about
losing a reminder of my dad’s idiosyncrasies,
That used to annoy me,
But, now I miss every day,
Torn down to make way,
For clean toilets, and a smooth driveway,
Sanitised food the same as every other fuel stop.
Why would I cry about a service station?
I am glad no one could see my stupidity,
As I drove towards peak hour frustration,
Rusty’s as a place will never be celebrated,
Except for the memories that remain with me,
Of a time when Dad was still with us,
And, how life invites us to think about love,
Because, my life will be torn down one day,
I will make way for something else,
All that I will leave behind is memories,
And stories that others will tell about me,
I want people to smile as they are told,
Crying at Rusty’s isn’t about a dollar saved
It’s about something Dad and I shared,
That only I know and have tasted with him.
