Orphaned Islands (Un)poetry

Almost every sized church has them –
devout volunteers
acolytes performing sub-divine
sacred cleaning
preparations
custodial functions –
they did for many years
with dedication, devotion and piety.

A career defector in my 40’s
a refugee from ceremony,
faith prefers low-key weekday to high Mass Sunday.
Possibly it was the backpack –
imagination imagined a burglar’s sack in disguise
or the dishevelment, of weather, sweat and cycle helmet
was classified shifty.
Perhaps it was verisimitude – I looked like ….
or was reminiscent of …

They kept an eye on me – a very human eye
one that followed, vigilantly, hopefully, perhaps.
Once in an artefact lined side chapel
she stood half metre behind – to the left
I turned
at 45°, there he was – reinforcements if needed.
I stopped going, felt tainted, marked
someone found not guilty rather than innocent.

They were slick
Cirque du Soleil trained
three,
a pixyish femme
and two men
juggling pins
five between two
the third coming from behind
and taking over – with no loss of precision –
fluid

Many other slick tricks
finishing with her escaping from a giant plastic ball
wriggling out of an aperture
and most of her clothes.
Thunderous applause
deserved
they were good – very good.
Cut to the MC
“ now I know what you’re thinking ”
pointing to the three
and then to her
“ is she doing it with him
or him
or maybe both.” It was exactly what we were thinking.

In another life,
the foreman had been a plumber.
He didn’t say much to those outside his circle,
but did say when I asked
“ because working in a factory is better,
better than crawling under fucken houses.”
Got it.

Actually, he never swore much,
a large man, he used physical presence
and police dog stare –
to do what others might have done with temper,
or violence of language.
And unlike many, didn’t seem to mind student vacation workers.

Gruff, but incisive, in the first week : close monitoring
“ nope – not tight enough – about six turns ”
or
“ yup – that’s what I want.”

Then nothing …. no comment = okay work.
Until,
one afternoon
loud enough to be heard over –
“ good, that’s more like it … I’d better check this one too ”
then … as quiet as a knife … as quick as blood springing –
If you’re asked, you saw Peter at work last Friday …
still a plumber –
plugging leaks – I wouldn’t have dared.