Posted in Rituals

Twin Pack

black can become white
white become black.
Hard to recall now, those days when nicotine was unwelcome,
before exiled outside –
not furtive,
always owned up to
and no pretending not to.
The reign
of tobacco as king
and Queen princes and princesses eager to be inducted.
Cooler couldn’t be cool without glowing tip
clouds on planes, trains, movie theatres,
shopping malls,
teachers walked around school yards – fagging
while looking for smokers.

Apparently the biggest butt pain
wasn’t regulations or opprobrium
but bludging
some always ….
An old colleague told me about before he gave up
he carried two packs
the one in use
and one with just one
“sure,” cheerful and obliging … passing the dummy pack
“ no, no I couldn’t take the last one. ”
Worked every time he said



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.