Orphaned Islands (Un)poetry

“ Gerald ” –
people still spoke his name,
sometimes,
occasionally,
infrequently,
but
in the softest possible way, always.
Handled the sentence in which it appeared
as if mohair, or silk.

He was gone before I started
gone from the workplace,
the town,
the world
one day as afternoon turned to evening
coming back from extension classes
for his diploma.
Motorbike + truck + inattention = death.

I was the inheritor,
after the inheritor.
His name was still on the staff board,
my predecessor’s removed before I commenced
mine, sometime between Monday and Friday of my last week
but Gerald’s remained.

Rural compression :
people didn’t get married or fall in love,
 “ they got together.”
Couples never separated, divorced or were estranged,
“ his Missus shot through.”
Incomes didn’t quadruple with a bonanza season,
“ payout wasn’t bad this year.”
And when the mortgage maze had no apparent exit
when the rifle became the final solution,
 “ things got on top of him.”

“This Friday is it? Hope I find someone like ya.” –
my severance and valedictory.
On the last day he was distant – distracted
at 3 p.m. he said that was it for the day
said he had to get moving,
 “ so you might as well bugger off too.”

Two hands emerge from the pickup window
one offering a handshake
the other an envelope. And then he was gone.

Envelope contents

    1. final fortnight’s wages
    2. holiday pay
    3. tax certificate
    4. And
a smaller envelope:  ‘ for good work ’
inside, $50.
I never saw him again.