Posted in Chutzpah

No Charge

The good old days,
well the bad old days actually
licensing laws prohibited sale of alcohol at arenas –
cricket, all day in the summer sun –
thirsty work on the embankment,
the terraces,
the bleachers.
Patrons snuck a can or two in
beer amongst the thermos and sandwiches.
The stewards turned a Nelsonian eye
as long as not over the top
or obvious.

Entrepreneur : one who finds away,
to provide customers with what they want.

Amazing the amount he got in
difficult to conceive how he managed,
but he did.
One dollar per can of draft lager
cheap, but at least 100% profit.

The policeman asked if he was selling
“ no,
I’m giving it away.”
The hot thirsty crowd growled ominously
“oh, in that case,” said the lone policeman, let me help you –
and proceeded to give cans to eager hands.



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.