Posted in Chutzpah


“ Could I see…?
That’s me sweetie
manager, owner, tea maker,
do you want a coffee sweetie?”
She called me sweetie
without flirt or flint.
Fffff she began and clamped …
scattering the pages of work history.
“ You don’t mind do you ”– then lit up
too bad if I did,
smoke-free yet to be invented.

“ Sweetie, a CV isn’t a CV
it’s a sales pitch
a teaser
a trailer,
show me the advertisement
and I’ll show them you’re what they want.
Don’t worry sweetie you’ve come to the right place
I used to work in HR
now I get to create the lies, not read them.”



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.