by Tom Patton
The day was
gray like the fur of a Northern Queensland Koala.
It had been raining all evening, which in no way
would harm a Koala due to the layer of raincoat-like
oil their fur enjoys.
I was in my
office, but I wasn't alone; a magnum of Bourbon
was keeping me company. I drank about as much of
the stuff a day as a Koala eats Eucalyptus.
there was a knock at the door the shook me from
my Koala-like reverie.
Her body was
lush, and curvaceous, like a sleeping tree-marsupial's
rump, and her eyes were large and dark and
luminous, like a Koala's.
Mr. Mike Sickle? she asked, cocking
her head in exactly the way that a Koala does
whenever its interest is piqued in something.
me, babe, I growled the bourbon-laden
gurgle not unlike the mating call of a Koala.
I have a
problem, she said, one that's as
big as the threat posed to the Urban Koala due to
the destruction of gum tree-habitats.
a big problem, I said. Tell
me more. I'm all fuzzy ears.
my husband might be cheating on me; he's wandered
away from me in exactly the way a male Koala
moves on after mating.
bastard. You want pictures for the divorce?
I fanned out a spread of photos I'd taken of
various sleeping Koalas in their native
want revenge. She paused curiously.
You know, I can't think of any way to
relate that sentence to anything about Koalas at
unfortunate, I said, Like when a
Koala falls out of the tree.
wanna just go to the zoo instead? she