Posted in Truth


Some things can never be recaptured
existing only in the quarantine of the present
no ancestor gifting inheritance
no offspring receiving bequest.
Brief pulses of the then now – recounted with a sigh – always.
the bank approving shift from tenant to home owner
a phone call offering the job
the jangling excitement of a first international flight
the eroticism of an unexpected, just that once, night.

A door heavy and soundless opens
framing the best looking woman life has seen
her face rearranges from dazzling welcome, to puzzled
A polite question as to certainty of destination
contrition real, or summoned, fills the perfection of her features
goodwill and eagerness to belong look away from slight.
Acoustically deep carpet, heavy drapes, almost darkness
people who may, or may not, want to be seen
but could ask anything to be seen with.

An expansive and bewildering array of cutlery
start at the outside my companion whispers : “move in.”
Flawless food arrives
vacuumed plates disappear
operating theatre precision, funeral home propriety.

We were newly graduated then
newly careered and newly eager.
Young certainly, unworldly definitely, pompous probably
the first taste of luxury – never surpassed. Never equalled.



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.