Posted in Passages

Moving In

We started on almost the same day.
She the bright young thing
we all once were
when newly graduated and stamped suitable.
Me at that indeterminate point of chronology –
old to the young set,
insufficiently silvered for the established.

Not quite belonging, not quite excluded
I occupied the space of ambiguity.
Favour seldom fell to the in between.
The mezzazine view. An uncensored peephole.

She diffused through all the boundaries
No membrane was impermeable to her.

As a workplace it was considered prestigious
this we were repeatedly told
her department rated more highly than mine.
Quiet, courteous, an endearing trace of shyness
she seemed well balanced, sensible and kind.

Three years pass
still not at the midpoint of her 20’s
whip crack tongue
regularly flicks service staff.
She now belongs. There is no need for impersonation.



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.