I didn’t know him then, or before,
but I knew those who did,
all said, he had it all –
top-class professional :
pretty wife and two beautiful children,
and had been really something in his youth.
The high school boy all high school girls wanted,
and maybe some older :
athlete, scholar, handsome, good guy.
Good friends went to see his wife afterwards
the six-year-old had a drawing to show them –
a road and a tree :
“ if daddy had this, it wouldn’t have happened.”
The coroner agreed,
adding work pressure, and alcohol, in that order.
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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