We were never introduced –
the owner’s wife and I.
I knew only the stats,
by ear and eye –
Natalie, “Mrs ..” to the workers,
the eldest child hers,
from a young, passing marriage ….
early 40’s trim, pretty.
She came into the orchard some days,
invariably seeking directions to her husband,
polite, always. And distant.
Now she was polite. And close.
She didn’t mention her husband
just she understood I had a job interview
and was new to the district.
Did I need to borrow anything? –
Something I might not have?
“An iron …..
a tie …..
I took all three.
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.
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