Posted in Truth


She had been a ballerina
movement was confirmation

But here? Doing this?
A growth spurt
too much height
not enough thinness.

Disappointment attempts laughter
it doesn’t work.
A pause, savage and kind
professional regret
I have my own.

This she knows
without being told.
Different and similar
we form a friendship
of sorts.



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.