Orphaned Islands (Un)poetry

The corridor is carpeted,
no vinyl or linoleum.
One door from the end
the guide knocks and turns away – her job done.
“ Welcome, ”
the smile is practised and straight
as is the wearer
bearing, parting and posture –
sexuality too.
Everything is parallel
no right angles.
No ambiguity, even on the first day.

Forms are signed.
Then a tour : hierarchal
presented to those,
to whom courtesy.must be paid
Others watch from the edge –
footmen
mute as a visitor is lead through the palace.
They’ve seen many come – and go. Another first day.

At coffee time, a jumble of handshakes
and names.
And comparison – that’s the point.
The predecessor was well liked,
proficiency can be taught
likeability, if not inate, must be learned – quickly.
The first lesson,
on the first day.

 

I always intended to look him up
but youth is careless with time
and when there was, I had to look down –
a headstone.
Legend said he was a lawyer in a former life
some rumours spoke of ejection …. others of spectacular abdication.
“I’m a painter son ” – the reply to the teenaged question.

Paint. It’s what we did
while the sun holidayed south.
Bleached mansions in a faded suburb
a once star, off the bottle and thinking comeback.

Hard work,
and no occupational health and safety –
unscreened sun
un-dust masked lead paint
three tier scaffolding … “ Okay, time to shove the plank along.”
Still,
It was worthwhile for the money and entertainment value of the boss – Morrie
two syllables… nothing more ever needed.
At the hardware store. No invoice, only statement… “ For Morrie.”

Stories !!!!
Even if half, were half true!
With coffee, first-hand accounts of his battles –
with the town planning department
the street association
the Heritage Society
the bank,
his wives : past and present. All abominable achingly hilarious

Flippant about himself and his ambitions
he told me, when the time came to purchase a house, to consult him
and he would tell me which ones not to.

Not a painter, a property developer
wide awake to the wide boys
a wheeler dealer and rogue, who every Friday lunchtime
handed over a bundle of notes … then drove me to the bank
and made sure I did : for my education.