Posted in Truth


It wasn’t the constant sniffing … coke head, what do you expect?
Or the clothes, ever seen a well-dressed junkie?
Or the furtive look,
man, people like that, they’ve been in the woods so long,
they just are hunted.
Or that he always turned up every second Tuesday –
“welfare day, mate”
handed over the cash
and bought stolen booze
paying with his unemployment cheque undoubtedly.
On seller probably, or on swapper
swapping top shelf Scotch
for bottom grade Thai.

No, she said, it was the car
only one headlight worked
often drove up at dusk
then away – half lit.
She told him it should be fixed
always laughed that addict’s laugh … and said he would
always said next time he’d meant to –
but ….
then laughed that spacey laugh again.
Brilliant she said
made us think he was ditzy druggie, not an undercover cop.



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.