I FOUND AMERICAN LITERATURE'S WALLET

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 Caf?. 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 well, 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 for running a
stanza.
Now, how's that for some poetic justice, pal.