Posted in Chutzpah

Your Call

The jemmied door told the story –
no discussion or puzzlement required
no why, or how. Only what.
Single bicycle,
the best of a fleet of six.
Strange the waivers of emotion
outrage and anger morph to relief …
we consider ourselves fortunate –
had got off lightly –
it could have been so much worse –
they must be interrupted.

Emotion becomes motions
police and insurance company
mechanical and factual. Both brisk and perfunctory –
neither expect recovery.

A phone call several months later
police have busted a ring selling hot bicycles,
after they have cooled. Serial number matches.
Come and collect.
The policeman is pleased at the outcome
we sign
then he says
“ I’m required to tell you this
if your insurance company has paid out
you are required to notify them –
then a large smile
but I’m not a policeman …”



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.