“ 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
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.
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