A Sudden Need to Shout

It is, I am told, a small bar,
tucked away down an alley,
down in a basement.

Nothing special except it’s longevity
in a town known for its impermanence.
No music leaks into the street,

not even when the occasional door opens
letting the odd local or two in or out.
The only noise is the buzzing of the neon sign,
orange in the night.

I have a weakness for such places.
Local places lacking tourists. Small.
nestled in and almost invisible.
A diner on a side street. A bar in the grotto.

A place where you are always the stranger,
where the food is dubious sometimes,
other times a surprise in its richness.
Good coffee. Good beer. If you are lucky,

good music and chatty waitress.
A place where you can talk to the cook
or where the bar tender will let you be.

You sit in the corners. The gunslinger seat.
Not that you are one. Hardly.
You are a peacemaker of another kind.
a listener. A watcher. You notice things
even as you stay as invisible as you want.

You are good at it. Invisibility.
It is a safe place to be until you get the lay of the land.
A good place to be until you understand
where you might fit, or not.

You are good at it. Invisibility.
Perhaps too good. More comfortable in the corner.
You dress in greys and muted colors.
Your voice is soft. Still, to your surprise, people listen

and it leaves you wondering
If it is worth the conflict to speak louder,
or if your quietness speaks to souls
that avoid noise. It leaves you wondering

if, in your old age, you should begin
to wear red, speak louder, pick a fight now and again.
You do know that you care less
about what people think about you and more

about what they think, period.
What they feel. More like making them matter
which cannot always be done quietly.
To be loved or loathed more,

to replace the sign on the alleyway
with something garish and hard to ignore,
obnoxious with color, saying the same things
in a louder way.

The bar is still open. It’s neon buzxing.
You breathe deeply. Exhale loudly,
with a sudden need to shout.

About this poem.

A poem with a bit of autobiography sprinkled in.

Before I met my wife, I dated a woman that I had also dated in college. In the years between our two times of being together, she used to say she always expected to see me on Leno (The Tonight Show.) She expected me to become famous.

I am not of course. I am the quiet sort. Even when I rose to leadership in companies and churches, I was quiet, more a watcher than someone who clamoured for attention.

When I was young and into middle age, I was a moderate Republican. (For those of you who are young, yes, there was such a thing once.). Over the years, because of experiences, and because of seeing more people who struggle in every way – financially, emotionally, socially, and spiritually – my compassion and my growing conviction that all people have value, I have become something else. I am pretty progressive as I approach 70.

And I have found myself, if not shouting, at least being clearer in what I believe, and why. More willing to engage in conversation with people who hate what I believe, at times hate me for believing it. I still hate conflict, but age and learning, and experience have made me care less when I encounter it.

At times, I wonder if it is too late to become famous? Would it matter if I did? Would the things I believe have more impact (the good kind, not the bad kind), or would I just be another noise in the cacophony?

I generally come to the conclusion that I fill a space in the wilderness that needs filling. There is a place for the quiet introverts in this world. I am comfortable in who I am and who I continue to become. But I have to tell you, now and again, I want to shout.

Oh, and it can also be a poem about bars.

Tom