Posted in Before the Rain

First Day

The corridor is carpeted,
no vinyl or linoleum.
One door from the end
the guide knocks and turns away – her job done.
“Welcome, ”
the smile is practised and straight
as is the wearer
bearing, parting and posture –
sexuality too.
Everything is parallel
no right angles.
No ambiguity, even on the first day.

Forms are signed,
then a tour : hierarchal.
Presented to those,
to whom courtesy must be paid.
Others watch from the edge –
mute, as a visitor is lead through the palace.
They’ve seen many come – and go. Another first day.

At coffee time, a jumble of handshakes
and names
and comparison – that’s the point.
The predecessor was well liked,
proficiency can be taught
likeability, if not inate, must be learned – quickly.
The first lesson,
on the first day.



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.