Darryl Johnson
Google
This place is a muse. It convinced me to take my poetry and photography to a new level. This experience was art by design :
The Monster in the Corner
I walked into Republic Social House alone,
A black man with a camera, a heart made of stone,
Not by birth, but by the weight of the stares,
The weight of the whispers that lingered in the air.
I chose a table, absent of friends,
January’s chill felt like it would never end.
A Caesar salad, a Georgia peach to taste,
But the sweetness soured, left bitter waste.
The waiter, polite but cautious and light,
Moved as if shadows dictated his flight.
Did my presence disturb, my lens offend,
That I’d see beauty in what they’d apprehend?
The chef, an artist, her creation divine,
Ignored my praise, my voice, my time.
Yet her salad stood tall, a fleeting shrine,
A work of care that wasn’t hers, but mine.
The eyes around me burned like flames,
Disgusted murmurs, untamed disdain.
A black man alone—a threat, a fear,
A monster hiding in the corner here.
Was it my camera? Was it my skin?
Or the solitude I carried within?
For to sit alone in society’s glare,
Is to carry the burden of being unfair.
I took no guard, I posed no harm,
But still, they gazed with silent alarm.
A man, a monster, a shadow, a thief,
No art could erase their disbelief.
And so, Republic Social House remains,
A place of judgment, of silent pain.
Where even a Caesar and peach in hand,
Can’t make a black man less contraban