Posted in Love

Raincheck

It was an old joke
if the hills were visible
rain was likely
if the hills were not visible, it was raining.

South West New Zealand,
a 500 km asphalt ribbon,
look left, water from the equator
look right, snow from Antarctica,
clouds on the run
from Africa, Asia and Australia
spawning against the mountain axis
rain – 1 inch per day
400 per year
one day without = 2 inches with.

Six or eight inches fell that day,
even Noah would have stayed indoors,
the motor camp, at last –
a biking holiday
young and poor
a tent for two site, please.
“No,” said the manger
words and tone disagreeing
I’m not letting you stay in a tent in this
you’re going inside.”

“We … we..”
she has anticipated.
“What did you pay last night?
Ten dollars.
Then ten dollars it is.”

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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.