Posted in Rituals

Come to think of it

Two weeks removed from teenage-hood
what the hell am I doing here
hell, irony –
when all the talk is about heaven,
the afterlife – is there? Perhaps Greg knows.
beatific sunshine
old brick and new pavers
I and two others from high school shake hands with his parents –
polite and formal – 
“ Oh yes, of course. Nice to see you. Thank you for coming.”

Slowly through stately and sedate avenues behind
the stately and sedate hearse,
to the motorway
eight cylinders of chrome and Cadillac
becomes eight cylinders of flash and Cadillac
shrugs the driver of the clapped-out Ford
“ did ya think there was a hearse lane.”



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.