My sister doesn't Poem by Fiona Wright

My sister doesn't shop at Bankstown any more
because the drivers are all crazy, or else they all
hold both a licence and a pension card.
My sister says that Indians' cars smell of ghee and curry,
that dashboard buddhas are a hazard,
and Taragos are Beirut Taxis.
It's not racist if you hate everyone.
Or everyone who's ever tried to kill you changing lanes.
We drive in Bankstown in my mum's old car, on those days
when we're the pork that's roasting
out of season. My sister says the car is purple.
An African in a Santa suit
flaps a bell beside the car park, and my sister wants
to buy fur seatbelt holders from Big W.
There are too many one-way streets
and we get stuck on the wrong side of the station,
where 40-kilo boxes of washing powder
line up on special on the footpath and pigeons pick
at rotting lychees in the gutter. My sister says
she might buy a rice cooker for Mum. The sun is sharp
in the windscreen. My sister says the Greek boys park
without opening their eyes, or slowing down.
She has twice punctured tyres on the kerb here.