Posted in Rituals

Back Door

“ No, I’m really sorry, I can’t do that
Could you …..?

No, I’m simply not allowed to.
Would you …. ?

No, I’d really like to be able to help, but this is non-negotiable
Can you ….?

No, sometimes there’s a loophole … but not this time.
What if ….?

Hell, if I did that, they’d sting me up – by the testes
How about …?

Look, I’m sympathetic …. I bend the rules when I can
and if they can’t be bent … some flexing might be possible …
but this is watertight
I’ve heard …..?

Some things pass without being checked upstairs –
but this won’t – no way.
Is there ……?

No, no, please…. I’d lose my job
Are you able to ….?

okay, okay don’t get shirty.”



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.