Prose Poem: A Walt for All Seasons.

 

There was a man above all the seasons, when I was a youth.

He was contrary and caring at the same time.

An enigma wrapped up in brown paper soaked in

vinegar.

But it wasn't Walt Whitman, or any other Walt

you've ever heard of. 

It was Walt Greenblatt,

who owned the corner grocery.

Walt smelled like his store:

stale jawbreakers mingled with charcoal lighter.

Most people thought he would burn the place

down for the insurance any day.

But I knew he wouldn't.

Not Walt.

Good old Walt.

He hated kids.

He hated their mothers.

And he absolutely refused

to wait on men under the age of

forty.

He'd send his assistant, Shorty,

to handle customers,

while he sat in the corner 

by the Old Dutch potato chips

and kept up a continuous commentary:

"Sugar and matches, sugar and matches;

that guy's up to no good -- mark my words!

She want's milk on credit, for her baby?

I wanna see the baby first.

Rubbery carrots, she says.

Rubber's good for your eyes, toots."

For many years I dreamed of working

for Walt.

Of learning how to tell a yellow onion

from a white onion,

and how to sell Turtle Wax to 

people who didn't want to buy

 Turtle Wax.

But one night as he was closing up

the mops attacked him.

In the morning they found him

in a pool of Mr. Clean. 

So I became a watchmaker instead,

working on Native American reservations

you've never heard of.

I got a lot of government contracts.