Posted in Before the Rain

Detour

There was no Internet then
phones yet to be mobile – forget smart
in rural areas, calls went to an operator
toll operators knew who phoned who – and why
and who didn’t. And why not.

Manual exchanges
clunking
slow
and expensive – very
my parents said they would call only when certain.

“Congratulations,” said my father
paterfamilias – it was his role to tell me.
Exams passed – I’m officially a graduate.
The farmer said: “ when do you want to finish
it would be useful if you could stay until Christmas.”
Christmas it is.

Christmas eve
back at home
in my hometown – my university town. Both.
“ When will you look for a job?” My parents asked
“a real job,” they add.

At the careers office it had all seemed too dreary.
Familiar tasks.
Familiar streets.
Familiar people –
I wanted something different,
to see and live in another part of the country
and
then the world.

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Author:

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.