Orphaned Islands (Un)poetry

The man opposite pressed his hands together
as if commencing prayer
reviewing not for publication thoughts
candour jostled with doubt. Candour won.
He said applicants like me were invariably troublemakers
not intentionally, not maliciously
the job was to blame – menial
unchallenging begat boredom, begat mischief.

Civilians working on a military base
for some, it was like being an atheist in a monastery –
all those opportunities
to satirise
to take the piss.
The pattern was simple and predictable
three months of compliance, anarchy by Christmas.
Being intelligent wasn’t always good
and here, it was bad.

History had very good form
he should not be telling me this …. but
sooner or later an opportunity to be a wise guy
would prove irresistible – a guarantee.
The Navy didn’t have a sense of humour
in fact, a lot didn’t make sense. That was the problem.

Antarctica, the adventure
and the money
the door is closing, soon it will be locked
a foot jams against it
full muscularity pushes back.
I said I understood his concern, folklore was well travelled
but this a once in life chance
future financial security more important than one upmanship.
A solemn vow not to satirise – ever.

Eyes lock. Fingers tent at the bridge of his nose
neutral irises already visualising next applicant, flicker alight
The mathematics of scepticism figures the odds
and places a bet
a rookie thinks the house can be beaten – a challenge.

For seven years, I polish stainless steel already gleaming
vacuum carpet, with a cleaner without vacuum
wash dishes nobody has used
make sandwiches that are never eaten
and keep the pledge not to lampoon, or be disrespectful.
Then
one Thanksgiving, a football game – civilian versus military – The Ice Bowl
the field to be marked out with Kool-Aid.
I am instructed to prepare 20 gallons
subversion cannot resist – “ should I add sugar? ”

It must be difficult
to rise
evaporate cognitive fog
and be at work by 4:30 a.m.
ready to assault FM airwaves
with an over the top Goooood Mooorrnnning voice.
Pranking.
Laughing.
Speed shit talking.
Being a card – the wild card
pulling in the audience, ratings and advertising dollars.

This time it was easy
very easy
the news made itself – in heaven.
Theology pondered revision
the three wise men, were actually wise women.
Throw open the phone lines.

“No, no mate, if it had been three wise women
there would be no gold, frankincense or myrrh
but herbal tea’s, aromatherapy and an educational game.”

Male caller after male caller
gifts becoming more feminine
and more absurd
until
a woman phoned in.
She said, wise men or wise women
she couldn’t be sure
but she was sure of one thing
Joseph must have been responsible for the bookings.

I disappointed my mother
she carried that disappointment with her
forever.
Even when there were other disappointments
and despairs
mine was the one she fixed
as the origin
could never annul, or understand
was the one that chafed her
like new shoes
or scratchy clothing.
My betrayal was something she could put out of sight –
sometimes
but never into storage
or discuss : “ you all mean the same to me.”

But history deals only in facts
she had produced the first grandchild: maternal and paternal.
I was her second
there were cousins by then.
No trophy
lightening, without thunder
Apollo 12 slashing down, to replication
it was very disappointing
The brackets had closed. They never reopened.