Orphaned Islands (Un)poetry

For many years he occupied special affection for my rage
nothing quite fulfilled it like the thought of a chance meeting
and being fantastically obnoxious.
Or four letter word contemptuous –
gratuitously insulting,
like Anthony Hopkins in Silence of the Lambs
Paul Newman in The Sting
or Jack Nicholson in anything.
Even now,
after amputation has faded to occasional phantom pain
I still mourn for the job
and wish he had been stronger, or less timid.

The position could have been renewed
but he was not long the boss
eager to please, and eager to avoid been difficult
or a nag.
Collateral damage – what is the loss of a junior lieutenant
to a just minted colonel hoping to be a general?

The rage is gone now, placed with envy
– slightly disdainful or strained envy,
but envy still.
He had the opportunity to exercise moral judgement
to stand up to his superiors for what he knew to be right,
most never get that chance.

A local restaurant one evening, phones still stationary,
not yet clever and unleashing the plague –
selfies.
He came in late, sat in the corner, alone.
There were several furtive glances,
then an almost Mexican wave –
a ripple of nods of agreement and eye contact –
yes, it was ….. Billy Connolly.
It took a while … then a patron found courage –
approached him, taking a napkin or menu to autograph.
No problem. A smile, a few words and a handshake.
The single drip became a trickle,
then flow,
then torrent.

The wait staff intervened,
but the star waved them away.
talking to all who wanted to talk –
the night grew late and food cold …
……. until no more.

Time,
generous and patient,
someone remembering before fame,
who had not forgotten
draughty provincial halls, budget hotels, cheap motels
and camper vans.
Being undercard and captive to agents,
and two or three shows a day, everyday
contracts drawing blushes from Shylock.
Or those passed on the way up,
the ones lacking talent or luck – faded pasts
leaving him to continue, lonelier
and
courteous with his current status
not curt with the encroachment upon it.

Like so many before
I asked, then pleaded, for another chance
“just tell me what …
NOTHING  DOING : her mind is made up.
I felt like a teenager, to be expected I suppose,
I was 19.
Still,
I didn’t get it, like Sylvia’s Mother just wanted to talk to her
– “ not here.”
The sun was just leaving for the North,
all year, 
as trees bronzed from green to empty, then green again,
I saw her everywhere,
even though I never once did.

19 turns 28
a lifetime between such brackets
she approaches me in a shopping mall
wants to talk, catch up,
I am visiting my parents: about to leave the country.
Should I have been more generous?
Sorry I said, one more day then I’m not here,
a lot to do. Maybe next time –
knowing a next time unlikely.
I was busy, but hindsight considers it a little ruthless,
thinks time could have been squeezed
and
been mindful of another time,
the time when I had wanted to talk.