Orphaned Islands (Un)poetry

The last confusion of growing up
or first conceit of adulthood
specialty of niche within social group
sport, literature, IT, travel.
Find a vacancy
become the group expert – non-curricular only.

I used to say I was a food slut
that I liked to eat around
it became a mission to find new cafes – first
to rate and recommend
to obtain recognition for expertise.

It was a nondescript place in an unimaginative suburb
opinion went in to sneer
condescension : the critic’s reliable cover.
Respect. Instant. Good. Very good.

Themed 1960s Italian cool
scruffy and hip
might get lucky lighting
testosterone coffee. Impossible to say no baking.

From the cash register she conducts the kitchen
slim and dark
cheerful, precisely the right tone and volume
the owner – no doubt.
Snatches of chords tease memory
scattered memos never filed
years of itinerancy so many people met – and not again
strangers who never became acquaintance.

Detour regularly visits for coffee and pastry
graphite afternoon steps into brightness
noise, tradesmen, expansion
ambience banished by full glare
the owner unbotoxed by shadow.

The light
she knew. And I knew.
The score
failed candidature.
“Thank you for attending…..”

She was desperate for the job
we unmoved.
I continue to come by
she continued to be pleased to see me.
Both pretended we didn’t know.

For the story behind a story  click  BACKSTAGE

Across the table
a woman dark and attractive
well-dressed
deep blue skirt – to the knee
beige coloured blouse – all buttons closed.
Shoulder length hair carefully arrayed
the loud light suggests a quiet tint
makeup is placid and knowing
understood to be necessary and not bold.

A perfect costume for an audition which
may lead to a permanent role.
Beneath the veneer of assurance
drywall of anxiety and framework of fear.
Unusually for an interviewee she speaks first
to offer apology
for something for which she is not to blame
a trickle of almost impertinence
is followed by a high-pressure gush of thank you.

A pause precedes a waterfall of explanation
a desperate recital of a monograph already read.
The summons to the interview
was delivered by a third party.
A scrambled note to phone this number and ask for
before the urgent instruction can be passed
the recorder receives another call
about an accident at school to a child – hers.

She departs to workplace complete with worry
prayer, hope and a scrawled piece of paper
four days of hospital bedside vigil later
she returned to work and sees the addressee of the note.
Frantic recall, a desperate search
miraculously the message has been hiding in her purse
but now it is Saturday
and requestor of the call available only Monday to Friday.

A week has passed since the summons was issued
Patience blurs. Insolence comes to mind.
at 8:05 a.m. Monday a panicked phone call
apologies offered, explanation delivered, atonement requested.
Her present job is being uplifted
about to be delivered to external contractors
there will be not a single stay of execution
very soon she will have nothing – this would be perfect.

She worries now that it is too late
she is told it isn’t
but we know it is – almost
The concrete of a contract poured. Almost set. Almost irreversible.

By negotiation with redemption, guilt becomes visible
the helicopter of hope was offered knowing it wouldn’t
I wasn’t the first or second most senior person that day
but I still held the power of veto.

For the story behind a story  click  BACKSTAGE

White middle-class Europeans
infallible cultural confidence as minority
striding through Third World
immunising, proselytising, electrifying, irrigating
strangely submissive at home as majority.

It was so much different second time around
another city, smaller and colder
figuratively and literally
nothing like the undergraduate bohemian subtropical.

We shared a house
two men and a woman
she employed in a halfway house
always being commuted from closure
he an encryptor of software.
Sounds like an opening line
the social worker, the computer engineer and the postgraduate.

Two men and one woman?
No.
We joked we were the only two men in the city who hadn’t
although I wonder if someday Mark will say – “ well actually.”

Still, she introduced us to so many people
offsetting the austerity of workplace cubicle
and ivory tower policy studies and economics
on Friday nights
the house filled
with half familiar and never before faces.

Francisco, from Bolivia I think
or perhaps Peru. Dark ringlet haired exotica
charmingly unconfident English
often needing help with “ what do I mean ” – from women.

The night grows long – the room hungry
takeaways? ” No, no, Francisco will cook”
chunks of cabbage, cauliflower and carrots
not boiled enough potatoes
sautéed
salt, pepper and butter. Much butter.

It is exactly what it is
large pieces of not raw, not cooked vegetables
marble pebble potatoes
yellow tide of butter
hypertensive salty.

“Ooooh Francisco,” young urban professionals coo
“this is fantastic.”