Broken Homes
Is it a shadow, or just some curled-up leaf. It’s tough trying to miss them on the black path before dawn, stumbling half-drunk on sleep with your eyes still glued shut from last night’s whiskey. you try. God, you try, squinting into the nothing, but it always ends the same: a wet pop under the
Sticky Rice
tonight, just me and my daughter tucked into a dim booth at a chop suey joint on Wardour Street. the air is thick with the hot steam of sticky rice, the green tea sharp enough to cut through the haze and remind you that you’re still alive. sweet-and-sour sauce pools on the plate, glossy and
The List
I picked up the scrap of shopping-list paper from the kitchen counter, the one with the faded blue lines, and there it was — her handwriting, still the same after twenty wild years, looping and sure as the first time she wrote “I love you” on a napkin in that Mexican restaurant in Smith Street
Che Guevara
the humidity comes down heavy over the whole sweating city, and we’re all gasping on the eastbound underground, choking on air thick as soup, the train rattling through the black tunnels like some endless iron beast hungry for more souls. toddlers wail and groan in their sticky seats while their mothers bend low, murmuring soft
Sitting with Diego
the morning’s got its claws in, a hangover sitting heavy on the brain. there’s still a little whiskey left in the blood, sloshing around in the empty tank, burning sweet. we talk the usual shit, love, life, the happiness that fucked off years ago and never sent a postcard. he’s a gentle Spaniard out of