Women of The Mekong Delta.

I woke rudely to my clothed body and unbrushed teeth.

I jumped online

and spoke to a dear old shoe

who’s been riding a motorbike from La Paz to Mexico

on his own–

and another special brand new shoe

who’s in London

closing a deal–

Sam and I drove to the hospital shortly after coffee and walks  by the cliffs

and a swim in the sea

Steve is ok

as being sick is perfectly ok

We compare chemo anecdotes


entry points

drugs and doctors

Qhi gong and bravery

the sea at sunset and

oodles of photo albums.

There are women where I go next

and stories

we’re almost too scared to tell–

but do–

or at least try to–

because that’s what happens to people as they pass on through.

I don’t tell him “I’m sorry”

because he has cancer.

And I don’t tell her “I’m sorry” because Melbourne can be a hard city,

quite the juxtaposition to Cranley

or Guilford.

I don’t say the words

because I wouldn’t be meaning it.

I’m not sorry you’re suffering.

It’s a stiff, bitter pill

but fuck it makes your eyes bigger–

It’s a long, slow hug outside a hospital

It’s a dry parched mouth perched on a rock by the sea

It’s a big glass of peppery red wine and

a cigarette or two.

The sun has long set

and I will wake at 4:30am

to drive her to the airport.

Nikki and Melbourne.

Sam and his drums.

There’s Benny Grebbs.

There’s veges roasting.

There’s a little bit of gin in a big bottle.

And there’s not much left to pack.

All of which,

is totally fine…


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