Posted in Rituals


She had been christened Lucy
born during the years when TV viewers
did love Lucy.
She’d done a lot of things
but settled on being a barmaid
tall and tanned and lovely
not quite the girl from Ipanema – but almost.

Short on skirt
long on wit
she worked her way up from L.A. to Seattle
finding the perfect bar,
or maybe the bar found her.

Lola was what they called her
she wondered if most, or any, knew her real name
had been there for a few years by now
was going back after her southern sojourn.
She told us lots of stories – but this was the best.

In women’s restroom was a poster
a full-sized naked man
with a fig leaf
exactly where a fig leaf would be expected
one that could be lifted
the unredacted view rewarding, apparently
if someone did
a light came on in the bar.

Whenever a new woman came in
the regulars would watch and wait
if she was there for the evening…. sooner or later.



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.