Posted in Unexpected

Innocence

In the neighbourhood
just before year’s end
a new family
young children
noise, enthusiasm and energy.

For Christmas
pleaded from Santa perhaps
a trampoline
they bounce in and out of our lives
the fence an intermittent conversation barrier.

Blue sky equity
from sunwake to dusk
a trio of shareholders
pass greetings, comments and gossip
as they bounce through summer holidays.

One day a broken fence paling
a neighbour enquires to the oscillating children.
They know nothing
and saw less.

The man in that house thought it was you
she tells one.
The seven-year-old springs cautiously
while pondering the identification.

“He might have been lying ”
is offered between ascents
the neighbour, a teacher of 30 years and mother of four
admiring the effrontery
and about to faint with laughter
drops the charges and awards cost to herself.

Author:

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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