Posted in Truth

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Posted on by tq1695

When she had been married long enough to know
marriage wasn’t all spring and summer
that chill could occur
or
petals fall, in any season
that the real course work came in the post graduate years
and
a pet dog was evolution’s wolf,
she asked her mother
if she had ever considered divorce?
No.
Not once?
No.
Really?
Yes,
“murder, many times, divorce, never, it was unthinkable.”

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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.