At Gaskins*

He arrived at the restaurant
clutching something
like an exquisite handbag,
asked for a table for one.

The hostess scanned the room,
six and eight-tops and many
tables of four, full. She smiled
as if to say, not really, sir.

But she offered a hand,
led him through the din.
Some remarked at his beard
and clothes, how literary.

And when he sat down
he drank his beer before
soup and didn’t look up.
He looked into the object

Cupped in his artful hand:
a dear antique portrait
a long ago love lost at war
or some terrible accident?

He yawned, looked to the
ceiling and back to his hand,
its numinosity to be
revered by the enlightened.

 

Poet’s Notes ####

*A restaurant in Germantown, NY.

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The image of the initial draft can be seen here:

At Gaskins

 

 

 

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