Posted in Passages


Voice almost as distinctive as fingerprints
an identifier and confirmer.
Her hair was still dark
improbably monotone for the years
the glasses may have been real, or fashion accessory
imagination imagined, adding fullness for the years
subtracting the spectacles.
It might be her
then voice, overheard in the lobby
eliminated all doubt.
Matching rings on marital fingers, standing together –
quietly with affection.
I remember working together I thought her a junior,
trying to be senior,

tame wanting to be an adventurer –
a medium personality counterfeiting XXS,
someone constantly straining to be something she wasn’t.

She collected the tickets, they left
outside away from the lights they crossed the street, arm in arm
two middle-aged women content, and happy.
No masquerade. No pretence.



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.