Posted in Love


The faithful departed
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.”




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.