Posted in Death


Age 48 youth’s decline has begun
still perceived as largely present
summer diminishing to autumn.
Shorter temperatures
longer nights.
The glass mandated half full.

Pride forms that hair is still abundant
and the same colour as birth
workload has neglected scheduled pruning.
foolish without the cover of youth or eccentricity.

A haircut
non-intimate intimacy.
Physical proximity
rapid fire questions of work,
of family,
of dreams.
Bodies pressed. Indecent.
unlawful in social context.

A constantly changing cast
of impossibly young stylists.
Truth knows hair like this has no style
but vanity asks if something could be done
the look says, “ I’m a hairdresser not a cosmetic surgeon.”

Fallen pride retreats to self effacement
I tell her I’m lucky to have hair at my age
“ain’t that the truth,” the 13-year-old look-alike shrieks
making 48 seem like 95.

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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.