Not a Haiku

We shall be as gods in this fictional town,
Writer and reader creating at will, and
We'll start with its street, which is patched
And uneven, and two lines of buildings,
Most of them battered, some boarded up,
But a couple made nice. One of them
We will enter, an ornate old house,
Now an inn, with a turret. Its front
Room, well-windowed, is half of an
Octagon. Someone is in it. We saw
From the street. She's the woman
Who lives there, the fisherman's
Widow. She's cleaning. She looks
Neither happy nor sad. We don't
Know what she's thinking. We
Aren't the best gods, but we see
That she's middle-aged, lean,
And looks weathered. Years
By the ocean have taken their toll.
Once inside, we soon learn that the
Front room is cheery. We've
Made the day sunny. It's morning,
And shadows of lamp poles and
Chairs stripe an old Persian rug.
The fisherman's widow, now done
With the dusting, decides to sit
Down. She's not hard-up for
Money. She wonders, not worries,
When someone will come, less to
Add to her income than build up
Her pride. She has made the house
Lovely, and others should see.

On the highway which bypassed
This town that we made (other
Gods may have made it), a man's
In his car. He is middle-aged also,
Divorced. He's on business. Though
We've made it morning, and, thus,
Awfully early for him to be stopping,
That's just what he does. He is
Hungry, and our town still has a
Cafe. He eats hash browns and
Eggs, and drinks coffee with cream.
When he's finished, he leaves, sees
The sign for the inn, and admires
The turret in front of the house.
Having tired of sterile motels
And of driving, and, actually,
All of the rest of his life, he decides
Not to go on. He'll stay at this
Inn.

So, he drives fifty feet, parks again,
Grabs his suitcase, and enters the
Inn through its tinkling door.
The fisherman's widow has been
In the kitchen. She quickly comes
Out at the sound of the bell.
“May I help you?,” she asks.
He says, “I'd like a room.”
They discuss what he'll pay,
And he fills out a form
(Things which we gods find
Dreary, and quickly pass by),
Then she leads him upstairs
To a large, sunny room with
A canopy bed, a fine walnut
Dresser, and one grand old
Chair, then she leaves. Seeing
Doilies and paintings of birds,
He thinks, “Only a woman would
Choose this decor,” but he finds it
Appealing. He puts down
His suitcase, and, shoes on,
Drops onto the bed.

When he wakes up it's still only
Just after noon. He's not used
To such idleness. What should
He do? He changes his clothes,
Goes downstairs and outside,
Where he looks at the ocean,
Not far from the street. There's
A walkway between an old
School and a bank, both long
Abandoned, which leads to
The beach. He takes it, and,
Soon, he is trudging through
Sand and feeling it fill up his
Shoes. Maybe someone who
Grows up by the ocean can
Take it for granted, he thinks,
As his sits, overwhelmed by
The endless horizon in front
Of him, and by the roar of the
Powerful waves. In time, he
Grows restless, and rises, gets on
The walkway which brings him
Back out to the street. He empties
His shoes. There's not much in
Our town, so he chooses to go
For a drive.

He gets back at five. The fisherman's
Widow had told him that they would
Have dinner at six. He goes to his
Room, and gets out his whiskey,
Pours a bit into a glass from his
Bathroom, and savors it, sitting
In that grand old chair. At six, he
Comes downstairs and into the
Dining room: two places set with
Real china and silver, a platter
With slices of some sort of beef,
And a bowl of potatoes, another
Of greens. The man and the
Widow converse as they eat.
Where are you from? Have
You always lived here? Do you
Have any children? What are
Their names? When they've finished,
She get up and clears off the table.
He goes to his room. He has people
To call.

In the morning, he packs up. He
Pays and he leaves. The fisherman's
Widow's a little bit sad. It was nice
To have someone to eat with again.
The man in the car is feeling the
Same, but we're gods. We aren't
Matchmakers. They have to part,
And there's no more that we ought
To do.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 136 times
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Written on 2015-08-03 at 16:52

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