Appointment with Jane Austen

Blushing in a manner out of keeping with my age

(my graying hair, my falling face)

I entered Greyfriar’s Inn.

I was blushing, and out of keeping with my age.

In I went, making my foolish entrance,

folding down my umbrella self-consciously — 

aware of the locals at the bar with their gin

and their small talk — 

and walked right up to the barmaid,

somewhat brazenly, I thought. One glass of beer,

I said to her, and she, smiling kindly,

pulled it. I stood and waited.

I waited for them all to stop their fond,

drunken reminiscences,

for them to stop putting forth their opinions,

and to turn to me and say — in an accusatory way — 

What are you doing here? On a Wednesday night?

Unaccompanied?

With an accent we can’t quite identify?

I waited ready:

Why am I here? I would say.

I am here as an imposter, an outsider,

a reluctant admirer of your lovely daughter Jane — 

I am here for my Lecture in the Picturesque,

to learn of sidescreens and perspectives,

to learn of window tax and syntax — and “ha-has” — 

for harmless gambling in the parlor,

wearing mittens and handworked collars and a pretty amber cross — 

I am here to steal a pistol and a spoon found underground,

to rob the peacock feathers streaming from the silly boy’s crown — 

I am here, I would say, for sensation — 

For sensation? they would say, and I would say:

Yes! Painful sensation of restraint or alarm!

Oh ye patrons of Greyfriar’s Inn, I would exclaim,

I am here to meet your high-waisted Jane,

to embrace her as my comrade; as my brother-in-arms!

I stood and waited. But the good patrons of Greyfriar’s Inn,

they never said a thing; just continued talking amongst themselves,

quietly reminiscing. I paid the barmaid and turned my head.

I looked out at the wet; I looked out at the southwest rain,

and the redbrick houses. I watched the famous silhouette,

gently swinging back and forth above the gate.

I raised the glass to her impassive, sideways face.

Nothing ventured. Nothing gained.