Artistic Bachlor Visits Tea Room

Looking for comments/suggestsions on this poem, which I wrote about the Stone House tea room, though obviously (and intentionally) void of Dana. Travis, thanks for your comments via email, I've already made some minor adjustments, but think it needs more overhauling. Lisa Bode says "pants down" is bad as is the final stanza "reality kept poking fun at me."


Ecstatic to have the day completely free,
I decided to try the Cream Tea at the Stone House
For the sheer thrill of it. As a boy
I used to frequent tearooms with my grandma;
She doted on how cute and beautiful
It was that I enjoyed such daintiness,
Such sophistication and finesse.

And here I was at 22, braving
The stronghold of femininity alone,
In my cargo shorts and collared shirt.
I sat down in the sun room. But as I
Looked about me I began to see
How things had changed, how out of place I was.

Behind my table, a birthday girl giggled,
Praising the joys of tea; she is “very pleased”
To have her friends and family there
At her table: tea for eight. She offers
Her sister another cup in fake-British.
Then, her dad’s cell cackles a harsh ring,
But this does not interrupt the magic
Of her imaginary world. I turn
Mine to vibrate, and just a moment later
It went off, rattling on my thigh, shattering
My half-believing moment. Is it Nichole,
That all important call of the hour?
Reluctantly I drew it out to check
The message, and as I held it to my ear
Three matriarchs emerged and processed
Through the garden and into the sun room,
Perching on the table next to mine.

My phone felt like a sin in my hand.
I was caught, pants down, without excuse:
Another unsophisticated vagrant
Making ugly the name of bachelorhood
Amidst the tearoom going crowd.

I tried to eavesdrop on their rapid chat:
Will they gossip of my dress and manner?
Or will they understand the battle we fight—
All of us—the magic world versus the real.
No. Worse—they discussed some other young man
Who is entering the priesthood. Just then
My phone began its earthquake again.
If magic was the goal then I was losing.

. . . The birthday girl still curled in bloody accent
And poured more tea for eight with innocent laughter. . . .

I felt an arrow wound my heart. I saw
It then: I was a misplaced, awkward klutz,
An agitating (but not lethal) bull
In that tearoom china closet. But my
Effort to be unnoticeable, at ease,
Could not disguise my makeshift etiquette,
As poor and grating as fake accentuation.

And I wondered how on earth those women
So confidently, casually begged strangers
To take pictures of their posing wrinkles
While donning those atrocious red hats.
Again, their source of romance confused me.
Why couldn’t I partake of that play?
Was there no role for me? No place in the
Dramatic action? Was there no space on stage,
Not even a non-speaking part, one
To wear the costume, blend in, become
A believable (unnoted) piece in the set?
(I’d like that, in fact: to be an atom
in the magic, and not its inquisitor.)

But reality kept poking fun at me
And pointing out the cracks in the urn
Of poetry and my own lack of social
Worthiness that cracked my hope. Although
I have escaped embarrassment by means of
This murmurhood of words I call my “art,”
I find I cannot live the art of life,
Cannot keep up the child’s birthday game
That makes mothers and daughters the same age,
Sharing the same story and a common joy,
Written somewhere in the mystery of tea
And diamond-sunlight glinting off the knife.