Making Good Use of "Wasted" Time

I've been trying to caption and re-caption this photo I took of a haiku I scrawled on a napkin during a keynote address at a conference I attended this weekend. The address regarded motivating students in literary practices. And although the speech wasn't all that interesting per se, you see that I was motivated to write a little something...and I drew a little, too. That said, I still can't come up with anything clever. It just covers many topics I had been pondering--the haiku, not the napkin. That was of the cheap, paper variety, and not very absorbent at that.

Inspired by a Solitary Dining Experience

“Almost” (Bluebird Café, Logan, Utah, July 18, 2016)

I sat alone

At an almost-polished, almost-clean

wooden table

that almost matched the others,

almost creating symmetry

under a curious electric chandelier with strategically missing bulbs,

and watched the lone server work harder

to move his thumbs, sitting at the bar,

than he did to bring my roll and butter without a knife,

my soup—almost better than colored

water and squelchy vegetables,

to refill my almost big enough water glass—

Ordinary yet meticulous details of almost-decent service

That only Billy Collins might notice or mention.

In his honor, I almost got the trout.

But after a private chuckle involving an old man

eating alone in a Chinese restaurant,

I ended up

with a less-well-than-medium sirloin,

semi-sweet and sour chicken, and almost-mashed potatoes

with congealed brown gravy—almost flavored to compliment an

almost-brilliantly odd dinner combination.

Stirring the poetry in my mind

More deliberately than the ice in my almost-empty glass,

I mused: There might be

some subtle symbolism in my almost-pleasant supper…

or perhaps there was a hidden meaning

in the clogged pepper shaker,

the historic building partially restored to glory--almost,

or the couple sitting side-by-side

staring down at their menus instead

of gazing into each other’s eyes

across the table.

Maybe the universe was hinting,

with the sky’s attempt to rain for a moment

before it gave up, sputtering,

that my experience dining alone

was almost worth paying attention.

Perhaps it was the fresh vanilla cream soda,

perfectly timed to conclude my solitary repast,

Foam clinging to the last few ice cubes,

refusing to be consumed or to blow away….

Then I left, by way of the almost-quaint candy

counter, where I almost stopped, almost left

more than an appropriate tip,

and wondered

…if I was the one a bit little off.

(Photo by Luis Arguelles)

     I was in Logan, Utah, at a workshop working on my dissertation for three days. However, my family wasn’t with me, all my friends from the area were out of town on vacation, and so I asked via social media for dinner recommendations. I wanted something local—no chain restaurants, and nowhere I had already sampled. The majority of the reviews came back saying the Bluebird was the best place to go. However, I must note, that those recommendations all came from people who hadn’t been in town for a decade or so. I came to learn that the café had been sold and placed under different management a few times. And so…what used to be glorious was not…at least in my experience. The restaurant still clung to former glory. As I sat waiting, three Billy Collins poems ("Dining Alone," "The Fish," and "Old Man Eating Alone in a Chinese Restaurant") swam in my head, and I recognized the moment for what is was, and the seeds to this poem were planted. Hopefully, for their sake, I just caught the establishment on a bad night. The following night I went to Angie’s. That was simply amazing—no “almost” about it.