Modern Day Poet: An Enigma

By George H. Clowers, Jr.

This literary creator discovered he had a dual connection to life and art. Here is an attempt to reach into the mind of the streets and the ivory tower.

• Language: English
• Publisher: George H. Clowers, Jr.
• Release date: Mar 29, 2024
• ISBN: 9798223392422

George H. Clowers, Jr.

Retired substance use disorder counselor.

Book preview

This literary creator discovered he had a dual connection to life and art.  Here is an attempt to reach into the mind of the streets and the ivory tower.

QUIET MORNINGS AND AFTERNOONS

The squirrel sat atop the feeder pole

munching on a morsel of seed taken from the cannister

set upon the hook for the birds.

It didn’t seem to notice I was watching through the window screen

or that I was interested in its behavior. This one did not seem greedy or overly athletic,

just a creature going on about a morning ritual,

steady, decisive, and sure of its place in time.

The scene was still and bright,

the morning sun illuminating the meadow

in the distance and up close,

so that the tree leaves and tree trunks spread out gradually

in a symphony of green, gray, and brown systems ancient and formidable.

Three, three hundred fifty yards away the dark undercover of the oaks

with Spanish moss draped ever so perfectly

beckon me to visit

not knowing I am limited by the boundary of the owner’s property line.

I do wish, however, that I could walk out there

and sit by the lake to the left

where I saw the eagle last year.

It would be spiritual I’m sure this time of day.

THE WRITER AND THE WAITER

I finally decided pursuit of something to eat was in order, but where? Most of the good places, with their expensive décor and romantic settings, more emotional than rational, are obliquely placed within a building such that one must know they exist, or one would not spot them while walking the city streets.

I walked southward towards that edge of town, which is more parking lot than architecture, plants can be seen growing from the earth again, and not having been transplanted to oversized pots to embellish with life the bland, concrete, steel, and glass towers prevalent in the north quadrant of the city. I noticed a small building, fifteen feet high, and sixty feet long, probably thirty feet wide, made of red clay bricks painted white, with the paint chipping in spots so that the rust red of the underlying brick seemed to be an affectation to the paint job. Getting closer, tempted by the smell of grease too long heated, I decided to go in. Above the entrance was a small sign that read, My Place.

Upon entering, the interior reminded me of a classroom, no pictures or ornaments on the subdued, beige colored walls, simple wooden tables with two chairs neatly adjacent, eight such combinations arranged in orderly rows and columns, the lighting was adequate. The only noise audible was made by the busboy removing food-stained dishes, forks, knives, and spoons from a table, placing them in a plastic container the size of a small tub so that the jingling, crashing sound was muffled, though irritating. There were no other customers there.

I chose a table in the middle of the room because the order, neatness, and simplicity of the room made me feel on the spot, so to speak, so I deduced that the more space between me and the walls, the better. If I sat too close to one side, I reasoned, I would feel closed into that side.

The middle table proved to be a mistake because the door to the kitchen was directly to my left, such that when the waiter came out I was bombarded by the brighter light which struck me as if to start me into some kind of action, you know, like when the sun first rises, and your first reaction is ‘go away,’ but after you blink your eye lids, and get used to the brightness you feel the better for it.

Good afternoon, sir, spoke the waiter in a pleasant, eloquent sounding tone, and handing me a menu, placing a glass of water on the table, and intoning, Welcome to My Place.

A thirtyish fellow, thirty-two perhaps, neat mustache, clean, fresh, happy looking smile, short afro, dressed in black tuxedo pants with the one-inch-wide strip of shiny velvet on the outside of each pant leg; clean, freshly laundered white, long-sleeved shirt with a small coffee stain on the right sleeve, halfway down, above the pit in the arm. He was average height, good physical build, he looked like my ideal of a buddy, you know, male or female, whom you don’t miss when they aren’t around, but you aren’t ecstatic in their presence either, you know you need them, but you aren’t dependent on them.

Lunch is over, sir, but you can get a side order and coffee, pointing to a place on the menu near the bottom, his voice again, clear, eloquent sounding. Lunch is from 12:00 until 1:30. It’s 2:00 now. We close from 2:15 until 4:00. Dinner starts at 4:30, ends at 6:00. Water only from 6:00 to 7:00, then we close for the night.  Breakfast starts at 5:30am and goes until 7:00am.

Thanks, but...

Excuse me sir, he walks over to another table and collects a two-dollar tip left earlier, then swiftly returns, smiling.

Is it possible to get a scrambled egg, toast, and a cup of coffee, I say, partly asking, partly ordering.

Sure, those are side orders. Is that all, sir? he asks, taking the menu, and writing my order on a pad held in the palm of his left hand.

Yes, thank you.

He walks off, taking short, pronounced steps, heel and toe of each shoe sounding off against the hard wood floor, not hurrying, but getting along rather well, nevertheless. 

I try not to compare myself with others, but the contrast in our demeanor and attire was obvious. My jeans were fitting loosely from three-days wear, I hadn’t shaved in a month, I was awake most of the night, but did sleep a few hours so that my eyes looked weary, not abused. And my shirt, though clean, was wrinkled, in a word, casual. The waiter, as described, neat, pressed, and formal.

He brings out a plate with two strips of bacon, a slice of toast, and the scrambled egg on it, and places it in front of me. He leaves and returns, pours me a cup of coffee from a pitcher, and sets the pitcher on the table, then looks directly at me and asks, Is everything okay, sir?

Yes, I respond, anxious to begin eating. Thanks.

He stands there, losing his smile, and questions, Hey brother, what’s going on? You look like you’ve lost your best girl! I have, I say without thinking.

At first, I felt invaded, but acknowledged that he was right, I wasn’t ‘OK’ now.

We split up a month ago, slowly reaching for the knife and fork to begin eating, hoping he would pick up the hint, I did not want to talk about it!

He motions his arm to ask if he can join me. I nod in the affirmative, politely.

Did the Braves win last night? he asks.

Yeah, one to nothing; went eleven innings. Pitchers’ duel, two hits the whole game, one for each side, but ours was a homer. Do they play today? he asks.

Travel date. They play Cincy tomorrow, double header, let’s see... I pull out a schedule from my wallet. "Yeah, they play four games there, then on