Orphaned Islands (Un)poetry

Her mother told me.
She was too gracious,
too dignified to relate self-acumen
would have thought it boastful
“skiting,” was how she’d have classified it.

The manager of a busy totalisator agency
managed to convey she wasn’t, but
perhaps teller supervisor.
In pre-electronic days, the time of punch tickets
more than occasional, less than often
a punter came in for winnings –
winnings from a ticket that didn’t … seem quite right
might have been altered – ex post facto.

Then auntie would say
“ I’ll just get the manager to check this ” –
wait five or seven minutes
nine times out of 10, the punter had gone,
if not
she would say,
“ the manager would like to send it to head office
come back on Wednesday,” or whichever day after tomorrow.
Nine times out of 10, they didn’t,
if they did,
she paid out.
Her branch had lowest fraud in the country.

Work, employment, jobs,
even the best have parts wished bypassed
or dumped,
this one had been – on me.
The nexus to function seemed tenuous, remote,
a predominantly female staff
and
issuing their uniforms.

There’s no way around it : “ what size?”
Size – one of the things woman don’t want to tell men.

Ghastly – the most shapeless thing human or God ever designed
if God, it must have been at 4.59pm on the sixth day,
as plain as newsprint
as couture as an army blanket.

I once asked if they wanted to change
absolutely not, they’re great, we like them : unanimous
later
understanding descended.
The woman who made them was clever with tailoring
and smart with size –
12 equals 10
14 equals 12
16 equals 14

 

Boys squeezed into testes lifting trousers
wore three button undone shirts,
styled big hair
and Brut or Old Spice
slouched and acted cool, or tried to.

Abba chirped Dancing Queen

Girls wore dresses to the knees
their best bra
pantyhose as the first line of defence
and, as a hedge against boldness – sensible briefs.

Peter Frampton loved his baby’s way

The already coupled took the floor
look …. no waiting or asking or begging
then cool boys, the footballers and athletes with,
the popular, pretty and hot.

Queen, Bohemian Rhapsodised

The median and mediocre
self-conscious, in their no spare cash spared best,
shuffle timidly hoping to be asked …… or not declined.
YES !
Bitch.

The Eagles took it to the limit

Eyes and small talk
closer
oops – sorry
“would you like to…”

Led Zepplin stairway-ed to heaven

light spun from strobe globes
dark corners
kisses, fumbling’s, clutched breasts
hands pushed away
allowed to linger
or explore.