Posted in Rituals


Banks were common then –
even a small cluster of shops usually had one, sometimes two
big employers – school leavers and returning women
women, lots of young women on the counters.
She looked like she put on her complexion every morning
unblemished by time, stress or ultraviolet
and the uniform of the city’s most prevalent bank.
Even in prescribed clothes she looked like the girl next door
or high school sweetheart.

Every morning for a year –
we both caught the same bus, from the same place
after a couple months she smiled
after a couple more she said good morning
after a couple more she said hello
and a couple more, hi.

Each morning I resolved …. to ask
then it always seemed better to wait … until the next day –
for almost a year.
After the summer vacation I decided
first day absolutely no procrastination – just out with it
she wasn’t there, or ever again.




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.