I was grateful to be able to
answer promptly, and I did.
I said I didn’t know.”
                          Mark Twain.

I don’t know exactly when I decided to become a writer. It wasn’t an epiphany it just happened happened because most of my life has been spent on the bench, occasionally called into the game by extravagance or attrition. Waiting  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 – unknowing as to what their use could be, but thinking the future might find one.