Has the concert house become the new car when it comes to providing a psychic cocoon around behavior that was once considered private? After emerging from her sleep during the first act of Gotterdammerung, at the San Francisco Opera recently, the woman seated next to me proceeded to dig at her teeth with a wooden pick. And, to spare your sensibilities Dear Reader, that is the only disgusting dig that I will mention. But, during intermission, she clipped her fingernails.
At Disney Hall, the week before, a woman making her way to a seat in the row behind me used my head as handrail to steady herself. There seemed to be some extra disturbance in the air that night, because the usual nervous throat-clearings that fill the silences between movements was joined by deep, percussive coughing that left me wishing I were wearing a Hazmat suit. The climactic act of intrusion occurred during that magic moment when the music has stopped, but is somehow still suspended in air. The lovely silent tension was ruptured when someone expelled a sonorous blast of gas.
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These experiences of public behavior and the space we allow one another, have led me to think of the poem, “Room,” (first published in Chiron Review 92) by one of my favorite poets, Clint Margrave.
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Room
Whenever I buy a cup of coffee,
I always appreciate how the barista will ask,
“Do you need room?”
And I think, what a better world it’d be
if we all just did this.
You’re at work, the stress piled up,
when the boss nudges you,
pops the question,
and off you go home for the week.
Your lover, after spending days together,
wakes up and at the nod of your head,
without saying anything,
gets dressed and leaves.
You’re on the freeway,
about to miss the exit,
when the driver in the next lane
sees your blinker,
gently taps his brakes
and with a flash of his lights,
signals you’re clear.
Imagine what could happen
at the borders of
India and Pakistan,
Israel and Palestine,
China and Tibet.
Or the inner borders
of harsh judgment
and bitter regret.
Imagine if the pilgrims
had asked the Indians?
Cortez, the Aztecs?
(Just before he turned around his ships.)
Imagine a suicide bomber
ordering his last mortal cup of java,
at a Jerusalem café,
doomsday device
strapped to his chest,
only to be astonished
by the barista’s question
nobody in his terrorist training camp
ever bothered to ask.
It’s a basic amnesty
carried far
beyond a coffee cup,
that whether or not
it intends to be, says a lot about the importance
of allowing each other space
to feel and think.
“Yes,” I always tell the barista
even though I don’t take cream.
Because with room nothing ever spills,
creates a dark black stain,
scorches me.
If you would like to hear some fine contemporary poetry by poets who are actually living in our midst, may I suggest The Hump Reading at Gatsby Books, www.gatsbybooks.com this Wednesday, June 15, at 7:00 P.M. The featured reader is Rick Lupert. There will also be an epic open mic.