Posted in Death


Memory could never recapture the tone
exhilaration, permissiveness, steel, neutrality?
Response so desperate not to drop the ball
what came before lost to the sky.
The morning after the night before clouds thrilling
shapes formed and separated. That floating sensation.
Eternity. Everything is possible.

She said she’d had her first man
listening to Joni Mitchell’s ‘Both Sides Now’
it was newly hot then
as were we now.

A song about clouds. Lying on her back
she addressed them. “ Last night.”
Rented propriety braces for an outline of circumstances
exceptional, out of character, not before or again. Surprise.
Her life is complicated
job, part-time study, mortgage
a soon to be ex husband pleading for another chance
she wanted sex only. Nothing else. Deal?

Eyes turn seeking contact – a covenant.
We were both in exile
her from marriage …. me….  life as it had been.
For the rest of winter. Every second weekend.

Early spring an unavoidable change of schedule
the children
she said it didn’t matter.
Her boy is the age when beginning to know
to know some visitors don’t sleep in the spare room.
In the morning he is sullen. I never went back.

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.