Posted in Before the Rain


Romance binds irreversibly to certain transports
some for name -The Trans-Siberian
some luxury – The Orient Express
others for adventure
or redefinition
changing understanding of unsafe, or squalid –
And some just are.

It was known as the night ferry,
the only one of seven per day with a name –
maritime shuttles linking the Islands of a lanky country.
Docking at 2 a.m.
passengers permitted to remain onboard until 5:30am –
other sailings had to disembark immediately.
Anecdote said much happened on the night ferry,
that there was a nautical equivalent of the mile high club,
hopeful ears heard getting laid was easy.
I didn’t.
No big deal. I’m in the South now.



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.