Published in Overland Issue 247 Winter 2022 · Poetry Poetry | The Sunday sun Luke Beesley They argued over the correct way to drain the sink. A chocolate cake buckled under the strain of their indifference to one another. To put it another way, my coffee came a little late—the kitchen was open and large slices of carrot toppled off the chopping board stopping-up doors that had yet to inherit knobs. There was half a chicken in my direction, which turned out to be a hobby. It was a fluid chicken (I mean to say kitchen). They bred huge rabbits out of those carrots. I wanted to chop into the side of the table where the m had been removed, and I sat with the sleeve of the cook’s hand jittery as mustard in my bread. Hollywood bored-baseball-crowd scenes: spectators reluctantly standing to cheer or Mexican wave, hair in the eyes. A palm reader parked her fringe. You could see from the expression on her face that she needed a Coca-Cola. She was a rep, day job, and immediately straightened and touched off a beetroot-coloured lipstick that had inherited the paint of patio renovation. She had had a dream of the new patio. Luckily her purse had been removed by a mole surgeon. He specialised in skin cancer and found he could pickpocket up a cheek! He poked in around vowels and his favourite centrist policies were, I suspect, for the boys’ barefoot benefit. He was old enough and smart enough to force himself to stand during the Mexican wave. Some early personality theory of the emotions: the muscles of the face trigger emotion, full stop. The siren! They folded out of a twist like the slice itself. As much as his hair had shifted into auburn in his early 30s. Everything was a memory. Even his hair colour came out of a friend’s overheard anecdote about his own friend who was probably the friend of my child, who had no interest in sporting events that sold syrupy cola. He, the specialist, got up out of the crowd like a sprig in spaghetti and made his way along a tunnel that led to the players change room. He hoped for an autograph, but what he got was better: a drawing of the players’ kits. The players walked off field and entered news columns (a joke to them and ghost-written out of racism, laughing all the way to the bar). Player A ordered a taut, calf-sized glass of ale the colour of the freckle he scratched as he flexed his calf. He had to release it towards a table at the back of the room where his teammates had spread out pages of Finnegans Wake—just the first few—and were passing them around. The table went quiet. Luke Beesley Luke Beesley is a Melbourne-based poet. His fourth poetry collection, Jam Sticky Vision, was published by Giramondo in 2015. More by Luke Beesley › Overland is a not-for-profit magazine with a proud history of supporting writers, and publishing ideas and voices often excluded from other places. If you like this piece, or support Overland’s work in general, please subscribe or donate. Related articles & Essays First published in Overland Issue 228 3 November 20233 November 2023 · Poetry our neighbours poem Ender Başkan our neighbours face appears above the fence – hello. our neighbours have a chat with us. our neighbours learn our names. our neighbours become our friends. our neighbours landlord thinks the market is ripe. our neighbours are told to leave. our neighbours try to buy their house at an exorbitant price to keep their kids in the school zone. our neighbours are denied. First published in Overland Issue 228 25 October 202325 October 2023 · Poetry The inhabitants Elif Sezen I died today, among many others, my grandpa died too, and our neighbours, / my best friend, the one with braided hair yes, and our sweet sweet doctors, / our motherly nurses... We heard a blast, then a whoosh of some kind, / and all gone.