Posted in Love



The sign instructed cyclists to dismount –
the artery of the street disrupted
viscera exposed.
A shortcut – suburbs less visited,
euphemismsville –
lower socio economic
first home area.
Project housing –
Identi cube clapboard
anorexic landscape, reluctant lawns.

Seen better days?
It was car almost in name only
the driver, thin and threadbare.
Grace of God wondered if she’d eaten breakfast
her child dressed in discount clothing,
but clean and well cared for –
reluctant : three or four-year- old tantrum refusal.
The woman explained it was too hot to remain in the car,
she was quiet and patient –
a hostage negotiator,
the big picture : the future.
No angry words, threats or arm grabbing,
she talked her daughter out … and around.
I mounted my bike – stereotypes felt chastened, very chastened.



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.