Prose Poem: The Inspector.

 

"No! No! No!" cried the Inspector shrilly,

when I tried to hang a string of pickled walnuts

on my Christmas tree.

"That item is NOT on the approved list."

I was about fed up with him.

He had arrived the week before,

shown me his credentials,

and then proceeded to lord it 

over me ever since.

Each bauble, bangle, and bead

had to bear his imprimatur

or be tossed on the dust heap.

I'm all for enforcing tradition --

but this was pouring it on a bit thick.

I had already complained to the Home Office;

like always, those bureaucratic fuddy duddies

had gabbled and gobbled and done nothing.

The Inspector stayed put; spraying down my

tree with rosewater once a day and

keeping track of the number of fallen needles

on the carpet in a miniature chapbook. 

The last straw in the creche came

when he told me the angel on top of 

my tree was too amorphous. 

"It looks like a sack of potatoes" he said.

"So?" I replied. I was in a mood to feud.

"Find something more like a seraph 

or cherub" he rasped.

"The devil I will!" I replied hotly. 

That angel was a gift from my phrenologist. 

"You know the penalty for noncompliance"

he said ominously. The candlelight made

his shadow dance like a demented fiend

on the damask curtains.

"Do your worst!" I shouted. 

"I'm all done with Tree Inspectors,

and Sugar Plum Enumerators and Blixem Collectors!"

I crammed his inspector's cap on his head

and pushed him out the front door.

I had the satisfaction of watching him

stumble down the front steps and fall

on his face in the gray murky slush.

Then I packed my bags,

set fire to the house,

and, under an assumed name,

 took the night boat to Scituate.

As far as the world knows,

Clement Clarke Moore

died in a house fire on Christmas Eve.

"