Orphaned Islands (Un)poetry

It is said life is a comedy for those who think
and a tragedy for those who feel
a more compassionate
less back of envelope division
than half glasses – full or empty.
Half full or half empty?
As if the emotions of men and women
contain no ambiguity, no apostasy, no proselytism
never require bracketing of alternative.

Recall would never yield her name without struggle.
Theresa?
Tania?
Tina?
Thelma? Thelma, that was it.

Her head was always covered
mask at jaunty half mast
or cheerfully in place
a warm word
or ruffling smile of acknowledgement.

I saw her out of work just once
in a busy cafe
she said, “don’t you recognize me with my clothes on”
to the amusement of the table.
Risqué was fact
I had only ever seen her in scrubs.

It was her 16-year-old daughter who found her
one Friday afternoon after school
hanging in the lounge.
Where does the purity of snow go
when it bleeds dirt to slush
or humour when its creator surrenders to demons?
It was a line I used for less than a year
I could never repeat the story
without thinking of her
and how comedy became tragedy.

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In an attempt to be individualistic
all high school foyers are identical
the lists of distinguished athletes and scholars
the gallery of robed former principals.

The reception area divided asymmetrically
the rigid stratification of airline lounges
inmates on the linoleum of the corridor
visitors the comfort of seats
and acoustic reduction of carpet.

Behind the sliding glass partition
a secretary bustles efficiently
smiling at people who matter
kind to those who don’t.
Yes. Have a seat. He won’t be long.

He, the Head of Department
the man I am here to see.
the person whom if I’m lucky will be a minor Messiah
or if such terminology is permissible, fairy godmother.

15 minutes late but cheer absolves him
flurry of handshake, apology and disarming admission
of congenital inability to conform with time.
A handclap signals the interview is underway -and mobile.

Down corridors
hands are flung at the orchestra of tasks
baton change chatter scores expectations.
A door opens erupting a wave of teeming captives
he continues to address the space from which I have been swept.

The music fades the carousel to completion
to chat in his office.
Anything I can’t do? No. Good.
I struck him as competent. Thank you.
The pay is…. “When could you start?”

The drive home is bliss
doubt and uncertainty recede.
I stop to purchase a celebratory bottle
three days later a letter.
Thank you …..Unfortunately.

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The funeral is two decades gone now
fragments of memory when hope was still rising
and waistlines could wear denim.
When everything was possible . . . no probable.

His life finished as his 20’s began
so much must have remained unvisited.
Did he know love
or only a dark corner and tangle of the back seat?

The world was the country of birth
not for him anticipation of the departure lounge
and long flight over empty ocean
no running with the bulls or Munich beer.

Or slow ragged march home
camping at friends or parents on return
shaking off memories of abandonment
folding youth away
pulling on the sober clothes of career.

We were the same age
almost the same letter
each school year began with rigid alphabetic proximity.
On the day age 40 arrived – a lone circling thought
he had been dead as many years as alive.

He didn’t see phones become clever
never knew flat screens and high-definition
or redundancy
or divorce.

For the back story click Backstage
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