Posted in Rituals


Alone and lonely –
sometimes identical twins
sometimes hunter and prey,
I had never been less lonely
or more alone
but I wasn’t – not quite
thank God for Nicole. I did.

Assistant manger. Second in charge. No 2,
profanely uncomplicated
once brusquely exonerating sloppiness, as “ fucking incompetence.”
Generosity and spite
she meant it
saying out loud what everybody thought – but wouldn’t dare.

Always sympathetic
always a full and fair hearing
always a promise to investigate
always a commitment to improve . . . . if proven.

Understanding forms as diamond from coal
incrementally –
Nothing ever changed
not one thing
politicians and promises and campaigns
YES…. we can
but not now. But it could. It should. It would. It never did.
Smart –
win win – I left her office satisfied, she didn’t have to do anything.




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.