Posted in Love

Fare-minded

The faithful departed
gone
gone to another workplace
absent, but present
memory skipping beatification to sainthood.

“Pam, ” : how my teeth came to clench,
everytime –
“Pam used to …”
“What Pam did….”
“When Pam…..”

She called in once
on her way south to a school reunion
looked around the kitchen
like God popping in on Earth
checking the tenant wasn’t wrecking the place,
polite, but just out of earshot
I could hear : not in my day.

….. Fiona, Second Cook
ferociously competent,
sternly sensible
soundbite brief – “ something wrong?”
I told her –
constant reference
constant comparison
constant eulogy.
No preamble. No appendix.
No sugar. No fat.
“The food was pretty basic when she was here
it’s much more professional now.”

 

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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.