Posted in Lies


She is right.
It is a lie.
I saw it as stretching two pieces of truth
an inconvenient gap filled with puttied praise
skimmed lightly with vague vivacity.

On the phone willingness was present
not sighted but background overheard
on the day it would speak up
no arm-twisting needed
a nudge and a wink
reminder of favours past.
We’ll talk over coffee.

It’s almost protocol
the friend providing the favour raises the topic – “now about……”
The opening bid mute and closed to hint
greedy excesses of small talk
the cake is good
the coffee superb
the weather is important
as are the inconsequentialities of summer holidays.

“Could we…….”
How did it get to be this way
dreams could be chased and caught
or so it seemed
confidence soared and then declined
as did the economy.
Employers are less tolerant now
no place for dreamers who take sabbaticals.
Things are hard at the moment, very hard
this town has reputation for being difficult for the unconnected
“is it possible history could be presented this way?”

The workplace has been a good friend to her
loyal and understanding
monogamous for two decades
its demands speak firmly at times
but never shout
situations vacant scanned as married contentment gazes a bikini
reflex without temptation.

No cacophony leaves no empathy. And no sympathy.

She would like to help of course. But that is dishonest
we must catch up again. Soon.



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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