Two Hundred and Seventy-Nine.


Izzy circle


know why I chose the white radio?
true story.
what’s going on, a little scrabble action?
did he?
that’s great, good for you!
whatever, whatever, the point is you’re together playing, god bless
oh, no, just here to pick up my father.


Sarah circle


Postcards from Indonesia:

The pool is quiet in the morning heat. An Australian man in his 50s (why is everyone here Australian?) heaves himself into a shallow seat in the water and rolls slowly to bake his stomach. The hair on his shoulders looks like wings. A woman steps up, child in hand, takes a photo on her iPad and he looks up. ‘Oh, I’m not taking a photo of you!’ she says. ‘Ah, it’s alright’, he says jovially. ‘I’m a beached whale here.’ He splashes water onto his gut. ‘Just gotta keep tipping water on me.’ The bartender at the swim-up bar nestles between bottles of bourbon and rum and scribbles furiously in a notepad. He is probably tallying yesterday’s sales, or ordering more mixer, but I hope he is writing a poem for a lover. Swim up verse. Poolside poetry. A beer and a quatrain for 50,000 rupiah. More waddling baked Australian seniors stroll past, clutching folded notes, in a country where we are all millionaires.



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