Posted in Antarctica

Black and White

He had been christened Roger
everyone called him Mad Dog
not a derivative of his personality
but favourite drink
he was fond of it.

A large man
tall and solid
six foot three and 250 pounds.

He was the boss my first winter
affable . . . most of the time
with good taste in music
and not so good in humour.

Still, he had one endearing trick.
When something went against us
much did in food service
he would leap onto a table
a griddle
a chair
or in the absence of a platform
stand where he was
bend at the waist
hands slid down the back of his legs
head pitched into his knees
“ come on, “ he’d roar, like a conjugating lion

It was hilarious – it wouldn’t have been if he’d been white.

For the back story click Backstage
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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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