Orphaned Islands (Un)poetry

Deb, never Debbie or Deborah
Deb, short. Businesslike. No frills. Almost masculine.
Which suited, tall, lean, short dark hair, jeans at uni
shorts when cycling,
never a dress or skirt
eight years older – “ 7 ½”
a lot when one is 20 and the other 27 ½.

She come to uni as an adult student
we were doing maths together
it was said, in mathematics,
mathematicians were third best, behind
physics and philosophy students.
So I guess we were fourth best
as both were doing corequisite
she for economics, me chemistry.

She was vague about the brackets of high school and tertiary –
“ lots of things, shop work, bakery, fruit picking,”
nothing long, or false start career, or travel
un-urgent years waiting for opportunity to knock, or be found.
Perhaps a decade of piecework
wrote a varied and eclectic address book : contacts –
happenings – she just knew and
was always good for info, gossip or a blend – including
predicting impending arrest for a crime baffling all.

That year of our closeness, was the year our country torn itself apart
protests and riots in the streets.
We took full part but
she always knew where … and where not
and who ….. and who not to, and kept us safe.

It took more than 20 years
for the missing years to click.
She was gone then – long,
but memory shifted the facts
holding them up to the light until
forensics became intuition became knowing – she’d been a cop.

He might have been the last surgeon in the city addressed as “ Mr,”
even by himself.
If calling from the wards or outside,
he always prefaced his introduction, “ this is Mr.”
To the staff he was MCA
M for Mr and first two letters of his hyphenated surname.
When he retired, the compulsory function
drinks,
presentation,
platitudes.
Overseeing the function – what we did
making sure plates and glasses were not hungry or thirsty
a good listening post
overheard two nurse
“ is she MCA’s second wife?
Yes.
Was she has secretary?
Yes.”

Clothing and grooming – instant carbon dating
denim and John Lennon
long-haired men, unshaven woman
shoulder pads and bouffant
goatee and cargo pants – naval start and crop tops –
places in time.

Stubbies they were called,
brief fashion infection circa 1980 – 83
men’s shorts, functional and acceptable
barbecue to blue-collar to sub- management
50% ubiquitous.
And niche to the same years, a moustache –
Magnum PI derived and 85% ubiquitous.
Stubbies and a moustache
is what comes to mind when I recall Patrick :
pale blue and lip hairlines that didn’t join
a finger width of flesh in the middle,
two snow ridges to a bare summit.

I was young, new and eager
eager to be successful and liked
jump on the count of three –
would’ve jumped by one.

With Patrick, nothing – instant frost – just add water.
A kingdom with an elderly monarch
and middle-aged courtesans
he was the young prince – had been for a few years
and now I was here,
it wasn’t me he disliked. It was succession.