Orphaned Islands (Un)poetry

During Nixon’s Watergate, lies turned professional
becoming “selective mistruths.”
Mistruth : linguistic blending of wrong and right.
Balanced. When added together the sum is zero. Neutral
Neutrality
hard to find
impossible to manufacture.

When his son was killed, I didn’t write immediately.
For several weeks
morality marked time
wouldn’t commit – couldn’t be forced.
It worked solitary hours on the mathematics of grief
determining shock and sorrow
adding compassion
subtracting personal resentment
resentment at his indifference to my abducted ambitions.

What Is the number …… when blank is the answer?
Zero?
Infinity?
Undefined?

Eventually I wrote
his loss too devastating to remain unacknowledged.
The vicarious emotions came quickly
words to package them easily
everything written was true
except the bit about him being an example to his son.
That was eyes closed personal fiction
even with the retouching permitted by obituary
I could never quite escape the ill ease
of attaching my signature to a selective mistruth.

When tertiary education was young
before enrolment restrictions
turned an open parliament to a closed kingdom
minimum grade was birthright access to the next level.

Examinations
accumulated learning
or applied gambling : win some – lose some.
A pass earned where failure merited
security tiptoed past by fortune
minimum grade = victory.
smugness high-fives creative non-learning.

Physical science
no place for the theoretically ill equipped.
Chill winds of exposure blow through flimsy insulation
the classroom confers anonymity on ignorance
not the laboratory.
Salvation
thieves’ honour passes on poker table bluff
all experiments measure a known physical standard
look in handbook for true value
work backwards fabricating data
ten percent variation disguises counterfeiting. Don’t get caught.

One staff member known to circulate
a sheepdog padding the aisles checking astray flock.
For fraudsters a choice – time coffee breaks with patrols
or find thrusting question of diversion.
Too late.
he is here
desperation supplies inspiration
a beaker of solvent vibrates
to the rhythm of vacuum pump
I focus acute attention.

“Is something is wrong?”
I point an almost perfect example of standing waves
he talks about the properties of liquids
then starts away
relief flows
verification foiled by the mendacious tangent.

One almost complete step and a head turns in taut attention
as if hearing the suffocated footfall of an intruder
a pause ..  and request to see my workbook.

She is right.
It is a lie.
I saw it as stretching two pieces of truth
an inconvenient gap filled with puttied praise
skimmed lightly with vague vivacity.

On the phone willingness was present
not sighted but background overheard
on the day it would speak up
no arm-twisting needed
a nudge and a wink
reminder of favours past.
We’ll talk over coffee.

It’s almost protocol
the friend providing the favour raises the topic – “now about……”
The opening bid mute and closed to hint
greedy excesses of small talk
the cake is good
the coffee superb
the weather is important
as are the inconsequentialities of summer holidays.

“Could we…….”
How did it get to be this way
dreams could be chased and caught
or so it seemed
confidence soared and then declined
as did the economy.
Employers are less tolerant now
no place for dreamers who take sabbaticals.
Things are hard at the moment, very hard
this town has reputation for being difficult for the unconnected
“is it possible history could be presented this way?”

The workplace has been a good friend to her
loyal and understanding
monogamous for two decades
its demands speak firmly at times
but never shout
situations vacant scanned as married contentment gazes a bikini
reflex without temptation.

No cacophony leaves no empathy. And no sympathy.

She would like to help of course. But that is dishonest
we must catch up again. Soon.