Posted in Rituals

Null and Void

The Realtor said very few properties were this private.
True,
it was, like living in a small park – especially in summer,
step inside the gate and
disappear from view.

I was out the back – at the clothes line, hot
November sun
still an adolescent
the adult of January and February yet to flex muscles
but testosterone brimmed
feeling proud, how a farmer once described ram lambs.

Something caught…. slipped ..
dropping … regained
held in the mind’s palm. . . . turning it over..
familiar –
birds, traffic, construction … sounds
sound –
the gurgle of a baby known immediately to its mother
the soothe of the mother known to a baby.
The slap of door on frame
hushed – muffled, but… I’d know it anywhere.

They are in the conservatory
the door to inside ajar – it might have been me
two people
a young woman – smiling
and a youth unsure to run, or raise fists.
She is practised,
he, still learning.

It’s so hot she says, I was wondering if I could have water.
I oblige. She thanks me
and
nothing more is said, we both know the score –
I don’t inform . . . . and they won’t return.
Thieves’ honour
we’re all safe.

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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.