she worked 9 a.m. to 3:30 p.m.
and called everybody dear
the type of office manager every workplace needs.
“Paid. Here. One week per year of employment. Three days.”
Quick. Definitive. Unequivocal.
Solutions with a smile
even at lunchtime – if urgent.
I was sure we had paid it
so was she.
“One place it might be
try the third drawer down”
with a fortnight’s timesheet – hers
filled in for 80 hours.
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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