The donkey man came round last night. He
was wearing a sombrero with ‘Kiss Me Quick’
on a band around the crown, and carrying a
“That’s not chic,” I said, wiping chilli con carne
from the Formica top.
“It reminds me when I was a lad, walking
donkeys on Margate beach,” he replied, a tear
dropping from his Zapata moustache.
The piñata rattled. I looked for a snake.
“The chest is over there. Those drawers once
held my most precious things.”
“Only he who carries the coffin knows how
much the dead man weighs,” he said, leaving.
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