When I got to the bottom of Pop’s tennis bag, I found a zipper. Inside the pocket were letters I had written from my surf trips abroad. Australian stamps mostly, but one from Tahiti that I signed, Love Mike…
Right now Doug decides to pull back the dressing on his ulcer for a looksee, and the swollen wound swallows half his hand before some babe wearing a black lace hanky strolls past, all silky wobble and perve. We observe the moment with a tranquil and hormonal grief as Ken retires into the dank shadows for another piss. Five an hour is the usual but who’s counting.