At least once a week the phone rang
lifting to terse introduction, no preamble
“… did I understand
… did I think
… had I not told my staff. ”
curt summons to the office
“ I want to show you,
I want you to see this for yourself ” –
often minimal and easily remediated
but contrition and apology expected.
At least once a month
one of the voices came to office
“ could I have moment
was it convenient
did I have few minutes.”
they needed my assistance
my interpretation – could I see it their way?
Acid became sugar – became phone call.
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.
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