I FOUND AMERICAN LITERATURE'S WALLET

I found American Literature's wallet last night in the parking lot of the supermarket, lying on the wet pavement -- Seeing I was driving cab on the Mid-town graveyard shift and had a couplet waiting to be picked up, heading for the amphimacer,I didn't have time to fool around -- I picked it up and looked around but American Literature was long gone. I knew it belonged to American Literature because there was a license inside, poetic, I might add -- There were a stack of buffalo bills that didn't belong to me. I presumed they belonged to EE --I nosed around inside and found a lottery ticket belonging to Shirley and some credit slips; for flowers -- roses Faulkner bought and chrysanthemums Johnny Steinbeck sent -- There was a triple A card for Jack, who was still on the road and a train ticket for the 5:48 that Cheever bought -- There were a couple of business cards in there too, lawn care for Walt and a dating service for Emily D. There were directions - for Bobby Frost, “Go left at the fork,” one said and a lay-away slip for William Carlos for one red wheel barrel-- There was a reminder to Mark -- “Don't forget the whitewash--” And a merit badge, red,belonging to Steve Crane. There was a used matchbook from some bar, “A Clean Well- Lighted Place,” belonging to Ernie -- There were instructions on how to build a fire for Jackie London and a bait and tackle shop receipt for Herman -- There was a recipe for beans for Gwendolyn and reservations for Carson at The Sad Café. There some lyrics for J.D.,“When a body meets a body,” it read. And a doctor's appointment for Edgar's heart. There was a notice from the dog officer to Allen G., ordering him to stop all the howling -- There was a warranty for Sylvia's gas stove and a mortgage application for Thoreau -- a single family place by the lake -- There was a salesman's phone number for Artie and the fire department's emergency telephone number for Jimmy Baldwin -- I'm telling you the thing was packed. Yes, I found American Literature's wallet last night in the parking lot of the supermarket lying on the wet pavement, and I went through it -- What was I supposed to do? -- The Wolfe’s were at the door, baby -- Turn it into some gum-snapping, teenage, check-out chick with an I.Q. of a potted plant? -- Give it back to the store manager who was preoccupied with the clean-up in aisle nine? -- I could go looking for American Literature myself if I knew where to start. And what do you suppose would happen when I found American Literature? -- What would I say? --“Excuse me, but I think you lost this. Is there a reward? --” I'd probably just get blamed. I could hear American Literature singing, “O' thank you very much I looked for it everywhere,” and then after a careful inspection, claiming something was missing -- “There was a whole new genre in here. What happened to it?” Then of course, there might be a reward -- “O'thank you for returning my wallet and as a small token of my deep appreciation here's a Pulitzer prize --” I could use one of them -- I could put an ad in the paper -- Lost and found -- “If you lost your wallet and can identify the contents please call.--” But suppose American History lost their wallet too -- What would I do? -- “Yes. I lost my wallet,” America History would say -- “I had the entire Civil War inside.” So I stood there blank, versed as I was in such things -- Now please don't take this personificationally, but you'd think American Literature would be more careful -- I figured I ode American Literature something -- It was completely out of character for me and my meter was running -- I didn't want to play around, so I plotted to take a novel approach and so, to make a long story, short I dropped it off in the library's night deposit box where I knew they would put it to good use. O’ you know I want to submit, baby -- I want to submit like crazy -- And I would sing the body electric too, if the rates hadn’t gone up -- Later that night, I was pulled over by the police forrunning a stanza -- Now, how’s that for some poetic justice, pal? Written April 14th, 2002 © on Apr 14 2002 03:51 PM PST   0 • 10