There is the question of money.
On the day after your birthday I have none. Outside the window we share, sunshine paints the back
fence golden and in the middle of Bukowski’s Los Angeles you press your smooth Swedish weight
against my body and I love you. Your hair smells like breakfast sandwiches from the Cuban cafe
down the street. The flecks in your eyes match the fence. I am loving you on a bed of your cash.
There is the question of money. When I ask that question it matters who is on top. When I don’t ask
that question I can pay in sunshine on a fence. I ate the croissant you brought me and it made me
richer than God.
HILARY GAN suspects you are apathetic as to the existence of the author’s spouse, children, pets, awards, or sense of humor, but suggests you look for more of her work at hilarygan.com.
The art published alongside this issue is by Anna Buckley.