You find the world rudimentary but perfect
Waking at dawn to feed a family of alley cats the heads of boiled eels
The cats slinking with adoration between your skinny legs
Waiting for you to shake your plastic bag out into the gutter
An hour or less before the street explodes into angles
The frenzied dance of crowds around traffic
Of men forgetting their creator and themselves even in daylight
Maybe the haze is to blame
Wanting for a flute of champagne and a flower
Looting the tiles off bathroom walls to get it
Grow up and flee from this, Dead Man
Find a way to slide from your fate and leave a memory of yourself
Write long letters to your mother from a distant land
Not for reading but as evidence of success
Grow fat in the hills and have many sons
Stack gold rings on every finger and thumb
The world is perfect but as small as a pearl for men like you
Run a row of orange trees to the end of your yard
Give to your rowdy boys doves for pets
No, a couple of glittering peacocks
Toss to the the birds the unfinished ends of lunch meats
And forget the days when feral cats licked between your toes

…

Tristan Foster is a writer from Sydney, Australia. He is the author of Letter to the Author of the Letter to the Father and 926 Years, co-authored with Kyle Coma-Thompson.