Orphaned Islands (Un)poetry

The photographic recall of an expert,
the zoologist able to name tax, species, genus
an art historian, masters, periods, schools,
a mathematician multiple sequences of Pi.

Shirley, tea lady in excelsis
assigned every staff member an individual cup
 earthy – clay spun, by local artists
and remembered all preferences : coffee + (milk – sugar).
Tea time queue
cups laid out like a street vendor
cheerful greeting – pour and mix – she never forgot. “Next please.”

A joint project with a university down south –
brains and muscle –
they have the ideas, we do the field work.
Pre Internet,
no Skype or video conferring
long-distance phone fiscally frightening.
I will take the work to them – and report findings.
five days away,
part golden opportunity – dead man walking – out of sight, out of mind
and
part gold watch – seven days per diem and travel.

On return
at morning break my cup is missing,
Shirley briefly, uncharacteristically blank
flurried awkwardness
a computer about to crash
before screen saver of inattention takes the rap                                        
“silly me,” she rushed
“I thought …..
…. …. I thought ….. you were ….. away.”

It was the question of a child.
“Why is Angie’s Job being extended
and mine terminated – there must be a link?”
“No.” And he is disappointed in me
didn’t think I was “like this …so … so … small minded.”
The door was closed
the discussion did not remain behind it
at morning break : silent hostility – sore loser.

A palace guard forms around Angie,
she becomes someone I seldom see and can’t get near –
never alone –
never unaccompanied
a person only at distance,
as if guardians fear a stalking tongue, or worse.

Before leaving I must I return books and periodicals
the library is a former dwelling
a wall has been removed
two rooms where there were once three
forming an L
around which I am not visible
she comes in.

“….Hhhhhhhh hi”
ringlet hair
looks electrified
silence pours slowly – treacle on a cold morning
“I feel like I took your job.”
I was angry – angry beyond belief
but sexual pride still rises
an attractive woman
desirable
pert and shapely
girlish and womanly – innocent and knowing
“I wouldn’t worry about it.”

She would be over 50 now
I wonder if she still has her most valuable asset or,
has time faded her to a single look.

Hypothesis : what if a renta Santa Claus said “no.”
“No,” to a Barbie doll, Play Station, Jurassic Park Dinosaur
or “yes”
and the Christmas morning stocking is empty
later
a child recognizes him out of uniform
and challenges absence.
How might he feel?

We had found friendship early
through cricket
and shared delight of the absurd.
He told me not to worry
“you want lose your job… I promise you.”
He said, “promise,” as if making one
a solemn vow – to a not to be messed with God.

After the decision and the appeals
after the realization there was no back door
or fire exit
after the date was set, he came into my office
as if he knew
as if intuition told him it would be quiet and empty –
just the two of us – and a broken promise.
Santa not delivering an urchin’s heartfelt wish
awkward circumnavigation of my packed up space
hands flapping uselessly at his sides
“lots of people here should have gone before you.”

Then he was gone.
I saw him every day, for what was left of my time,
but never again did we talk … he was broken by the broken promise.
Then I was gone
when I came back, he was gone – to his maker.