Dead Ringer
A display of elegance,a study in black and white,
he held unobtrusive court
among casual pedestrian patrons
at a corner table
of the popular sixties chic
shake and hamburger eatery
very much unnoticed by
the cult effusive diners
blind to cultural paragons
particularly if elegant
sporting expensive haberdashery
banded in charcoal black silk,
particularly if a pale portly
gentleman brandishes an expensive
black fountain pen over
an open black leather bound folio
securing cream white stationery
brooding over the tonnage of
words.
His garb was strikingly black
and elegant to a poetic degree,
pleated black slacks,
a sweater with black leather trim,
a black satin shirt and
the snow white neck tie making
a powerful statement,
flailing the ebony fountain pen
in manicured pale hands,
pursing colorless lips,
glaring at the stationery with
vodka clear eyes,
considering the scrawled black lines
drying upon the cream stock.
I came in for the scalding
fresh coffee, a poet
sans port folio but possessed
of constant nagging thoughts.
I noticed the study
in black and white
scribbling in sudden bursts.
I sipped coffee as a gunslinger
without a gun -- well,
there was the ball point pen
and -- a napkin.
Perhaps I could write some lines
and attempt telepathic communication
with the pale presence --
"He has to be," I muttered.
"He's a dead ringer."
The whale of a black fountain pen
made contact with the cream
and moved rapidly, flying now
hemorrhaging basalt black effluent
from its gold jaws easily,
smoothly with the writer's
fits of zeal.
"He's brilliant," I muttered and
attempted a line on the napkin.
It just was not working
at this time.
The coffee was becoming tepid
and boring after the first
delightful sips.
"He's a dead ringer," I thought.
I rose, suddenly determined
and stepped tentatively,
heavy legged as if
manipulating prosthetic devices
dodging ebullient waitresses
and their plates of hamburgers.
Suddenly I felt like eating hamburger
as I approached the dead ringer
with lukewarm resolve to ask
him a rather uncommon question
as he was busy with writing
during a creative moment.
I drew close and noticed a
patch sewn upon his sleeve
depicting the yinn and yang of
the universe of course in black
and white. I became more convinced
he was a dead ringer.
He looked up and noticed me
approaching.
I stepped up and the question
fell from my lips.
"Excuse me, I thought I'd ask if
you are a poet. Are you a poet?"
He was amused, white teeth flashed
in a grin, "Well, no, I'm not," he said.
I glanced at the stationery
noticing writing appearing to be
an outline.
"I thought you were a dead ringer."
"What?"
"Dead ringer for a poet."
"Oh," He paused, "No, I'm with the
Tar and Feather Society. We're
an association of sarcastic toastmasters.
"Interesting."
"Are you a poet?
"Yes."
His cheek curled into a small grin.
"Are you apart from the herd
or waiting to be -- heard?"
The vodka clear eyes met mine.
I laughed.
The aroma of hamburger
assailed my nostrils.
I craved hot coffee
just a few more sips.
Poetry by Peter J. Kautsky
Read 659 times
Written on 2007-01-31 at 00:24
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