Orphaned Islands (Un)poetry

Missouri, he claimed, was a southern state
antipodean high school geography was confused
remembering borders with Iowa, Nebraska and Illinois
but,
didn’t want to upset the boss.

Still, he was from the part
which tucked as a chin into Arkansas
so perhaps for him an exception.
Southern man. By spirit. By prejudice. By wit.
Rick and Ricky.
Ricky, in the evening company of Jack Daniels
Rick, in the blurred light of new day.
Ricky at Christmas and Thanksgiving. Rick at all other times.

Rick. Mess captain at the diner, on the edge of the world.
Antarctica,
cold and full of white shit
that was the overheard description, to his wife –
on an intercontinental phone hook up.

Cotton Belt molasses speed advice –
once, a pretty young thing surprised
3000 miles from nearest habitation
“you mean you bake bread here.”
“Boy,” he said
“before ya hire a woman, go outside and jack off.”

Another time when exclaiming
how could it possibly be my fault –
“boy,
shit flows downhill.”

A decade later
When it was my turn at the wheel,
I only ever hired sturdy, sensible, middle-aged women
and
told staff effluent flowed from the top office
downhill, onto the factory floor.

It was just luck she said.
Luck, never fully credited by the archivists of success
overshadowed by collaborators,
and sometime rivals – talent and application.

On this occasion, there could be no dispute
it was luck, and only luck –
no doubt
the doctors thought it a matter of seconds
perhaps as few as 10, or 20.

The hose passes no judgement
only the engine’s exhalation
oxides of carbon ….. promising calm
fading pain, from infinity, to possibility, to empty.

Memory takes hostage the riverside watercolour
trees of fleeing sunshine,
stones of cooled shadow.
Opportunity – recreation finished,
lovers yet to arrive
despair closes eyes …. and leaps.

The last waltz – unpartnered
resolution gathers speed, rushing to darkness
something slows, gravity shifts, balance overturns
a surfer flung from a board – carried by the waves.

It was just luck she said
oversight failed to lock the door
unconsciousness’s slump, thrust it open – to life
to profound neurological damage,
to 29 years old, forever six. “Bad luck,” she said. “Shit timing.”

We made love a second time
three weeks after the first
we had been housemates several months by then
shared chores, cooking and common threads.
Time was generous, the future patient
late night stay ups, talking,
music, issues and courses
of expectations, dreams, hopes and excitements –
of what lay waiting
countries to visit
careers to be fashioned, conquered, applauded.

It was almost inevitable thoughts would
turn to what was, almost inevitable….
…. It didn’t quite work
imagination was surprised
but lapel flicked it away – just one of those things –
better luck next time.

Three weeks later, a repeat screening
magic accepted an invitation
but didn’t attend.
Imagination, often approximated, seldom equalled.