Posted in Truth

Off the Record

It was comforting to never to find out
ignorance allowed pretence to pretend
that what imagination, sometimes imagined
may not have been true.

My predecessor had been a pain in the butt
a single target provocateur
never missing a chance to wind her up
to stick it to her.
But he had style – and got away with it,
it helped that the boss liked him.
Often, his mischief was funny
but sometimes it went too far –
personal turning professional … one department against another
and when he left,
resentment stayed behind: coiled and lurking.

And now it was payback
the chase of important paper
wind snatched and taunted along the pavement
then spinning away
watched with such obvious gratification
rancour knows it was released …..  not escaped.

Superstition carries unspoken dread
and inadmissible truth.
I always feared she might die unexpectedly
or tragically
and I would experience no grief or shock
only relief,
it was comforting to never find out.



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.