Posted in Love

Public Transport

Grey haired and pinstriped,
swinging backpack
from which briefcase and laptop peeped.
Age chronometer takes a fix
late 50’s,
no older,
early to mid-60’s.
What was the back story?
Second time around Dad?
Stop over lover?
Family friend?

It doesn’t matter,
squeals of delight
each morning
60 something and six-year-old 
parallel scooting –
school and work.
curiosity kills cats
and magic.



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.