Posted in Rituals

In The Dark

The boss never told me to get rid of my assistant
didn’t express an opinion on the assistant’s performance.
She said, “the girls on the wards,”
thought standards on the weekends
didn’t match those of the weekday –
damned by faint praise.
Did she agree? … “I’m never here on the weekends,”
“ perhaps you could talk to the girls on the wards,
they might be able to help.”

The assistant was from last century – literally
different award – different conditions – unionised,
hired when private healthcare was boutique – cost plus – fat layered.
Extraction difficult, slow –
move and counter move.
Just when result thought draw
clear sky lightening
a mistake – checkmate – resignation – bloodless.

The boss asked to see me
apparently my assistant was leaving
needed to spend more time with her children,
“I’m surprised, I thought the job suited her
could you organise a card and present.”



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.