Orphaned Islands (Un)poetry

Every Sunday we would go to our grandparents,
all of us,
mother and father and five children,
all very young.
The kids made a token effort at calm
and etiquette
which untangled to running around,
playing pickup, or tag, or fighting.

Our parents had tasks – undertaken dutifully,
solemnly.
Mum would arrange the flowers and do a little
wiping and cleaning.
My father clipped the grass edges
and swept the concrete.
Occasionally we would be told to lessen the noise
and show some respect.
We could only have been there 20 or 30 minutes
but seemed a very long time in the quiet of the cemetery.

I lie in bed,
wait by the bathroom sink
or stand in the kitchen,
while my mother gets the thermometer.

Hope is coiled, a dog waiting to catch a biscuit,
or air
I’m halfway there
but
the thermometer’s authority is infallible
no alibi,
or testimony irrefutable to its veto.

Time breathes
“okay pop this under your tongue,”
Time holds its breath
damn – a normal reading bins the chance of day off school.

He was the best-known politician in the country
known for much
but not modesty
this was centre stage
camera
lights
TV audience – ratings
a grandstand for a grandstander.

The country’s best-known politician
speaks and snarls in sync with the six o’clock news.
an exchange
sabre rattled
he mistakes the counsel – calling him by the wrong name
and apologises
but cannot resist recrimination –
“ you all seem the same to me.”
Queens Counsel : silk
and silky
“That’s perfectly understandable
Mr … Mr… Mr um …Mr um … ”
then to turned to his junior, stage whispering, “ what’s his name?”