George

Margaret George

OUR VISITORS

Our village has gone from black and white
to bronze and multi colors.
From Gallaway cows to Seward Johnson's
twenty sculptures.

The sculptures are men,women and children,
each with a story to tell.
They are quiet visitors who wear jeans or
business clothes with ease.

They like to play tennis and read a lot.
Sunshine or rain they never complain.
Their children are well behaved all doing
what children do, only very quietly.

Several figures have stepped from the pages
of a Scott Fitzgerald novel.
Zelda and Scott are here as well,embracing
as they prepare to check in.

These silent people will soon depart,
as visitors always do.
They brought a little magic into our
everyday lives, A fond farewell

San Remo

It was a restaurant in the Village on
the corner of Macdougal and Bleeker.
During the late forties and early fifties,
there was standing room only.
The food wasn't bad,but the
atmosphere was better.

Cigarette smoke drifted up to the
ceiling and on warm summer evenings
the sound of laughter spilled through
open doors onto Macdougal Street.
The big old expresso machine hissed
and Santo kept order behind the bar.

The war was over and the GI bill could always
stretch for a few beers at the Remo.They
were everywhere those former military men
now turned into would be writers,artists and
students. North Carolina's Black Mountain
College had a strong presence.

If you had never heard of Picasso or Sartre
you quickly learned to hide that oversight.
Sure Dylan Thomas went to the White Horse
and Pollock went to the Cedar Bar. And who
cared, the Remo was home in those years,
an extended family in a large urban city.

You and I went there in later years, you hated it
and tapped your pipe loudly on the bottom of our
table as I extolled the virtues of my favorite village
spot.I sat there meekly wishing the floor would
open up and you would fall into the basement.
San Remo vanished years ago.