The quiet Australians

In case you were wondering the quiet Australians 
Won’t tell you what they are thinking. Their patriotic 
Yowl is stifled by a kind of shame, or fear of shame 
That in a plastic-colored world of money, generations  
Of growth and privilege do not add up to much.  
The quiet Australians want someone to wail for them  
 
To sob about unfairness, suffering, their piece of cake 
To blame, to tear down, to strategise retaking what 
Was taken from the history their forebears vandalised.  
The quiet Australians would stand up to be counted 
If they had a leg to stand on. They would go to war  
If war did not require a sacrifice they shrink from.  
 
Fears aside, the quiet Australians sometimes speak  
When martyrdom can be assured, when whistling 
At a pitch that dingoes hear their words give voice  
To pain they sincerely feel in the salty cracking  
Landscape of their lives. There on the dusty plain  
The quiet Australians cultivate contempt for strangers.  
 
Not feeling for them, we pretend the strangers cannot 
Feel. We, I say, since I am one of you and know that 
Silence can be strength; I know what lengths my hate 
Can go to. When we quiet Australians learn to speak  
We might have something good to say. But, when? 
I don’t know. I’m old. One day, I think. One day. 

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