Disenchanted
I ceased to jog or swim
in what seemed to me
to be a reproachful sea.

I preferred the anonymity
of the night
and delay the day
by sleeping late.

Perched on a chair
like a midnight owl
I drank while watching
awful movies on TV.

Diagnosed
with carpal tunnel syndrome
I had day procedures
on both my wrists.

Caught speeding
I lost my drivers licence
and gave up trying
to get it back.

Chris Kennedy
who cleaned for me
decided late in her life
to become a nurse.

Married with children
she studied
while working part-time
and to my joy qualified.

I began wearing glasses
for astigmatism
when I lost my focus
teaching at Frankston Tach

A procedure
called TURPS
cleared the ureter
blocked by my prostate

I’d go for walks
past disinterested houses
and over a creek
hoping to see some ducks.

Sometimes I’d weave
uncontrollably
before managing to resume
a normal stride.

I’d occasionally collapse
in my driveway
senseless
amidst the flower beds.

While crossing a road
I began to stagger
and fell helplessly
on the other side.

Unable to rise
I lay in the gutter
waiting for an ambulance
summoned by a bystander.

My GP arranged an X-ray
followed by a scan
which revealed
a tumour on the brain.

The neurologist
decided to operate
without delay
at Carbrini hospital.

A final MRI
failed to show
whether the tumour
was malignant or benign.

The surgeon explained
there was the risk
of partial paralysis
on the side of my face.

I waited philosophically
in my room
wearing a back-to-front
white surgical gown.

Compassionate words
from a visiting Nun
left me with feelings of
peace and serenity.

I regained consciousness
in the recovery ward
deaf in the right ear
and a splitting headache.

Prescribed pethedine for the pain
I learned the tumour was benign
with some still left inside
too difficult to excise.

Unable to urinate
with a bladder complication
a specialist urologist
decided to operate.

With a catheter
attached to a plastic bag
I was transferred
to a rehab hospital

I had to learn to walk again
regain my balance
and urinate
before discharge.

My good mate Harry Thacker
from Manchester England
ex Royal Navy
arrived to drive me home.

I met Maria
owner of the Carrum store
a refugee who escaped
by boat from Vietnam.

I was drifting apathetically
like a vegetating leper
exiled
on a lonely island.

Her friendship
helped me away
from yesterday
towards a new tomorrow.

A widow
whose husband
had recently passed away
she had five daughters.

Anne-Marie, Theresa, Margaret
Evelyn and Elisabeth
all married
with young children.

Maria and I shopped
dined on Vietnamese cuisine
and I became part
of her extended family.

Jodie Kewley
from Red Hill South
became my muse, critic
collaborator and lifelong friend.

Harry introduced me
to the digital age
with an I-pod
then an Apple computer.

Disenchanted
it seemed to me
our prestigious literary journals
were elitist and incestuous.

Grafted onto universities
they published only the best
of the tediously self-indulgent
derivative and pretentious.

I relied instead
on little magazines
with shoestring budgets
who couldn’t pay.

Polestar and Woorilla
Jimmy Saks Banksnotes
and Kevin J. McIvor
from New Zealand.

My first book Ghoul Days
published in 1986
by Neptune Press
was a flop.

Maria inherited debt
with the general store
from her husband
when he died.

I helped pay for stock
with a loan
which was repaid
and another which wasn’t.

I managed to kick
my cigar smoking habit
and began withdrawing
from antidepressants.

Maria and her daughters
began to call me Uncle Ken
an honorific title
or a new incarnation.

I began to jogged again
stroll along the sand
and swim backwards
out to sea.