the water sign
witness to life’s beginning – and end.
uncommon in the British colony
with upper lips trained to be stiff.
The union delegate announced a meeting
2 p.m. Compulsory
not for student holiday workers – management overrules.
Soldiers return from the front
we didn’t need to be told
death slow marched alongside.
The three R’s.
in the men’s
a man whose name I think is Tony
cheeks crumpled and wet
we both turned away urgently
walking in on an undressed mother-in-law.
It never happened.
Most of my life has been spent on the bench, occasionally called into the game by extravagance or attenuation. Waiting has turned a loner into a recorder - nondescript and inconsequential, more not noticed than overlooked - the non-vantage point of children not yet considered old enough to understand.
Orphaned Islands (Un)poetry is a lifetime of picking anecdotes up and not throwing them away. Stories collected like odds and ends placed in a box in the basement, the garage, the garden shed - uncertain as to what their use might be but knowing that one day there might be one.
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