Posted in Chutzpah

Hue and Cry

Racist probably
sexist certainly.
At the swimming pool, a sauna
with a round window,
bigger than a porthole, smaller than skylight
past which walked just trained female triathletes
wet haired,
tight costumed,
and oh so toned,
a group of 12, a gleaming dozen.
After perhaps the eighth
a large black man, clasping his ample belly
fanned away steam
and moaned like a wolf checking in with the moon
ooooooooooooooooh – I gotta get me some of that.”
Everybody in the sauna cracked up, even the women
Sexist, yup, no doubt. None whatsoever ….
racist, in a strange way –
it wouldn’t have been funny from a white guy.



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.