Posted in Love


It was a competitive course
marked in the prospectus with an asterix.

* restricted entry

Many call – few get chosen –
those who have done well. Very well.
The clever.
The entitled.
The swollen headed.
The supercilious.
All were some of the above,
some were all of the above.
The elite,
Miss Jean Brodie’s crème de la crème
in the prime, of ego
early, very early, 20s.

Day 1
students meet staff. Staff meet students
clockwise introduction of self and interests –
five minutes, from now
coffee, and home.

Day 2
opening day of business
head of department, for one hour
of housekeeping and “ where to go for …..”
 • If murder has been committed: him
 • If manslaughter: his secretary
 • For everything else : Edward

“ Edward ,” flippancy flips formidable
“ is one of life’s gems ….
this department would not function without him,
I don’t want any of you upsetting him in any way.”

Most had already joined the dots : gay –
then not yet accepted
easy and no limit prey. Game season is closed – indefinitely.



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.