hidden in plain sight
A lyrical look at what is hidden in plain sight. Everyday epiphanies that, once you notice, you can’t not.
AVAILABLE AUTUMN 2024
Blink is a collection of vignettes that illuminate daily life’s hidden beauty and profound insights. Four dozen vignettes, each meticulously crafted in twelve lines, invite you to see the familiar with fresh eyes.
Pyjama Jerseys
I stand in my baggy uniform, bat in hand, looking more ready for bed than battle.
The hardwood club feels like an extension of my arms.
My jersey hangs like pyjamas, loose and comfortable, but hardly the armour for staring down a fastball.
The pitch comes, time slows, and I am rounding the diamond, carrying the crowd on my shoulders, consciously stomping each bag together.
Local folks know us by our stats and the sound of our voices.
We’re fixtures to them, like the diner on Main Street or that big oak in the park.
In their eyes, I’m exactly where I am supposed to be, doing what I was meant to do, making my way home.
It doesn’t matter that the jersey looks like I should be sipping coffee in my kitchen.
Clothes don’t carry the image; it’s the other way around.
Ball players wear pyjamas not because night games go extra innings.
But when you swing hard enough to go home in front of adoring fans, you don’t need to dress up to look your best.
In their eyes, you already do—looking like you belong at home.
A Treasure Machine
I park the car and walk a block to the bank, whose facia is open at all hours.
Driving down is a safeguard against the impulse of cash or credit cards and yet the screen’s a welcome beacon when the urge to spend exceeds my need to horde.
I belly up to the brushed metal ATM, privacy dividers on the sides like a urinal.
This creature of habit, the ATM, thrives on the routine of a daily grind, posing ‘this-or-that’ questions with patience only an assembly line could appreciate.
The drill-down prompts bottom-out at the moment of truth: the Enter button.
For now, it’s a benevolent slot machine, not that it matters to the teller whether it swallows my cheque or belches bills in a neat bundle.
There are places far from this sprawl where ATMs dispense the dreams of pirate loot and ancient treasure: real gold.
Imagine a world where gold dispensers were married to vending machines.
A union of convenience and treasure, doling out chunks of gold or a can of soda with the ease of a button.
In the glow of the withdrawal screen, anything seems possible.
I take my cash as the wall device beeps farewell, then walk the block back to the car.
I’m off to trade a neat stack of bills for fantasies.
My Philodendron
My philodendron is in a corner of the living room, a green prisoner in a concrete cell.
It is caged by the same walls that keep me, breathing the same stale air I breathe.
It’s trapped, just like me, in this zoo we call modern living.
It has never felt the rain wash over its leaves or the wild wind that could tell it stories of the open road.
I water it with the same hands that can barely hold onto hope and sing to my cellmate.
It’s supposed to be tough, this plant, able to survive on neglect and the dim light that filters through dirty windows.
It doesn’t complain; it just sits there, soaking up whatever care or neglect comes from the chaos of my life.
It stretches towards the light, trying to escape, but there is nowhere to go.
But I see it reaching, always reaching for something more, just like I reach for connection.
Its silent presence is more comforting than the empty words of those who’ve long since given up trying to penetrate the walls I’ve built.
It’s just us, the philodendron and me, two souls trying to find a bit of freedom in the confines of our existence.
Maybe we’re both just looking for a way out, or maybe we’re just trying to survive, each in our own way.
