Posted in Love

Home Movie

The real estate agent’s car was already there
bright, shiny, logo-ed
sporty, compact, part SUV, part status
expensive and proclamatory – the owner has done well.

They were young, impossibly without weariness
or cynicism,
standing at the gate – daring to dream.
He brushes her hand
she tugs his waistband – ephemeral – it might bring bad luck
hand in hand, down the driveway
children wishing Christmas
wondering if this is preposterous,
The waiting realtor full watts $1000’s of implants
and whitening,
hands wave features, as a pointsman disciplines traffic.

They have learned each secrets
and bodies, before, there might have been others,
probably there were,
but everything till now is tinsel
this is purity of consummation – hope and the future.



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.