Posted in Chutzpah


Car : cyclist impingement of road space –
nothing unusual
every day – two or three times daily some days.
this car, the cutting off car,
the, not paying attention car
the might is right car
is different.
heavily chromed, full-sized
odd shaped windows, something covered with flowers
and where the should be driver … an empty space.

“I’m really sorry,”
a voice and uniform emerge from the far side
Cadillac, left-hand drive, pause.
An apology, but also request –
intertwining cloned doppelgänger streets
Google Maps is confused
he has to have the deceased home by three –
it is 2.50
do I know?
explanation fails to bring enlightenment.
I offer to lead ….
but helmet, sunglasses, ear band – seemed disrespectful.

“No mate,” he drops a formal courtesy of a chauffeur,
“ keep it all on
There’s some mad drivers out there.”
We both dissolve into laughter.



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.