A Celebration of Samantha
(Part One)
dear thomasine,
old troutman poet up and around in the pre-dawn darkness, feeling despair of near terminal black ass depression, trying to understand the insanity of wounding myself so deeply again, it has been three, four days since learning over morning bakery coffee with “jb” that elizabeth, the friendly,
attractive waitress at the four seasons restaurant was not married, and thinking holy waugh,
why not ask her out, careful versemaster weighing his alternatives after the savaging and separation with the
finnish poet and writer from steuben, thinking i could return to the
reclusive life of an exiled poet, writing and drinking, liver growing the size
of rhode island, or wait patiently for a telephone call or letter from the estranged miss
, proclaiming “i’ve made a mistake, i was wrong,” telling me she really loved me, and saying
“let’s start over and really try this time,” knowing i would never hear such a confession,
maybe bide my time, quietly wait for a new lady-mate, possibly one better than my sad poetess
inamorata, the other imaginary femmes of my dream fantasies, admitting the two previous options
only variations of the safe prospect of withdrawing to solitude, losing myself in writing,
solidifying the image of the old man in the bailey house on the west end, instead seizing a rare
moment of “let’s go for it” and “carpe diem” courage, or perhaps a moment of temporary madness that
compelled me to catch young liz working the restaurant coffee counter, mid-morning when fewer customers,
saying “i understand you’re not married, and “well, if you haven’t got a serious boyfriend, you might be
interested in going out,” adding a face-saving gesture, “let me know what you think about it, eh,” how many days
passing, painful hours certain i have shamed this young lady, causing her unnecessary embarrassment, also another
sad chapter of humiliation in my life, already full of disappointments, feeling sure the small town must be humming
with whispers, “silly old goat,” and “remember that other girl, giving her roses and showing her off at the dogpatch
sunday brunches,” terrified feeling of a criminal living with fears of discovery, wondering did i really have enjoyable
dinners and pleasant conversations with my stepdaughter back in battle creek, has a simple social outing between two
people become lost in a society that i have lived apart from for the past many years, are “yooper” women really that
hard and use to men abusing them that they think a man who is polite and treats a date with respect is weak, or possibly
choosing the path less traveled and chasing bohemian “left bank” dreams i have isolated myself, leaving only a future
being the shy old poet rambling around town wearing an opaque mask for camouflage, like the elephant man wearing a
sack over his head, now waiting, sure local citizens will come with tar and feathers, provide escort to the city
limits with all the poet books i can carry, demanding i take my unhappiness somewhere else,sky slowly growing light, signaling beginning of another day, bringing life to the lower munising bay, illuminating grand island, and sand point, silently musing again, “goddamn tarot card fool on a quest, why can’t i accept that i’m an old fucking man, and just let it go at that,” steamy cuppa-cuppahhhh espresso, hot dark ethers to pacify brain’s rising demand for “coffee, dammit poet, coffee,” almost missing light backdoor tappings, greeting a shy, nervous elizabeth, feeling stunned, a whispered “well, young lady i’m really sorry for any embarrassment i caused, please believe me,” another two or three “i am sorrys,” cut short by her soft “no tom, i’m the one feeling sorry, i was afraid, oh, i hope it isn’t too late, i hope that things are still possible.”
(Part Two)
dear t-sine,
“hi, i’m sam” met me at the front door, said “you’re supposed to come in and wait while mommy finishes getting ready,” samantha, a charming young lady thanked me for the photo-broadsides and two poetry chapbook gifts, we sat together on the couch looking over the photographs of the “pictured rocks” broadside, i suggested to sam that it would be fun to hike into chapel beach this summer and have a picnic, sam liked my favorite poem “astral meanderings” from the moon shadows collection, after reading it twice she said “i wish i had a big black dog to take me on nighttime journeys like you have in your poem, ” the old graybeard seeming not too shabby competition to the weary flintstones rerun droning away on the television, quietly thinking, “holy waugh, this young girl seems to like me, and maybe more than just a little,”
the moment was interrupted by liz’s “hi there” and “i think i am finally ready,” telling sam to get her books and pajama bag to take to grandma’s, the old troutman determined to act suave and say the right things, suddenly blurting out “my elizabeth, you l ook incredibly beautiful this evening, i feel lucky to have your company,” opening her car do or, explaining i’m from the old-fashioned school that believe gentlemen are polite and good ma nners are the way you let a woman know you appreciate her, finally off and tranny-tooling down the highway, turning over quiet speedometer miles, crossing the seney stretch, once voted the d ullest road in the state of michigan, driving to grand marais and a marvelous meal of fine italian cu isine, telling liz she should feel tense, that i had already created a new dimension of nervousness tha t would serve us both very well, leaning close for an instant, whispering “let’s relax, have a good time tonight,”
con brio stodola “sportsman’s” carte and feast, chianti apertif, toasting to a “new peace” and “out with the old ghosts,” omnibus spaghetti spread, fiery tomato sauce with chicken livers, estella and isadore ever watchful, cook, waitress and host, treating us as primo-splendid sportsman celebrities,
after dinner we drove around to the grand marais harbor and breakwater, walking the cement pier out to the lake superior shoreline, a sudden rising cold evening breeze turning us back, listening to elizabeth’s curious “why me” question, replying “you’re a beautiful young woman, and i thought a married one until i learned differently from jb at the bakery last week, telling her she didn’t seem to have the hardness i saw in other local women, and, she possessed a soft feminine vulnerability that i found very human, like her blushing the morning at the restaurant counter after i asked her out, nervous poet rambling on, explaining how all my life i had played the tarot card “fool’s” game on the quest for happiness, not revealing i was just over the brutal pain of an abortive love affair, and wanted a decent woman to help me feel whole again, or i had developed warm feelings for her daughter sam,
lizabeth answered my “why” saying she had been thinking seriously of late and wanted more out of her life, adding that she hadn’t determined yet just what the “more” was, but she had grown tired of the noisy weekend bar scene, escaping in beery saturday nights and sunday hangovers, she didn’t like it that she was becoming a bitter and unhappy woman, staring out the car window into the nighttime darkness, murmuring “and, i want something better for samantha too, something better than the life i’ve had,”
finally back home at the apartment frontdoor, a warm “good evening,” or “good morning” adieu, my light kiss brushing across liz’s cheek and rumpled tress, telling her i had a most splendid dinner and date, adding, “i guess we should wait until our second time out together before we discuss the advantages of natural child birth, or the names of our children,” quickly telling her “it’s a joke, eh it’s only a joke” to her sudden bewildered look, off on my way home, feeling such an incredible rush, as if several years had momentarily been pushed back on this mysterious old cold spinning piece of rock, my steely confidence that anything was possible slowly returning, slipping “cats” in the auto-tranny’s sound system, fine work of the old rascally doc t.s., another master versemaker, soft sounds of “memories” echoing around the old ford tempo, by myself, but not feeling alone anymore.
Links
Splake's Website
Cliff's Soundings
Vertin Press
Book Orders
