Prose Poem: Uncle Soapy.

 

I went to visit my Uncle Soapy out in the country,

but his caretaker told me he wasn't there.

"He's gone off with some British Nonconformists

on a bicycle tour of the Great Lakes" he told me.

I was very disappointed, and put out -- because now

I had no place to stay and there wasn't a train back

until the next day.

The caretaker sensed my predicament somehow.

"Would you like to come in for a cup of Bovril and

then perhaps we can find you a cot to sleep on in

my cottage?" he offered kindly.

I accepted gratefully, and soon we were in his

book-lined study. 

We talked late into the night, about books and authors

and Godel's Incompleteness Theorem. 

As we finished the last of the strumpets and

Gentleman's Relish the caretaker told me he

was writing a book himself.

"Really?" I replied. "What kind of book?"

"A biography" he said, with a shy smile.

"Anybody I know" I replied waggishly.

"Actually" he said, "it's about you."

I goggled at the man.

"Me?"

He nodded pleasantly as he filled his meerschaum

with Turkish Taffy.

"But . . . but" I spluttered, "you don't know me at all!"

"Ah" he replied, "that's what makes it so easy to write -- I

can make up everything as I go along. Your Uncle is

quite taken with the manuscript so far -- and has promised

to see that it gets published next spring."

I demanded to see this manuscript at once. 

"You've just cribbed the story of John Paul Jones and didn't even bother to change the name!" I told him sharply after I had finished reading.

For answer, the caretaker opened the curtains -- the sun was already up, and if I wanted to catch my train back to town I'd have to hurry along. 

As I rushed out the door I paused to tell the caretaker that he was a scoundrel and that I would inform my Uncle about his effrontery.

"Do that" he said as he closed the door in my face, "my biography will indicate that you were illegitimate, and so your dear uncle will not leave you a dime in his will."

At the train station I asked the telegraph clerk if the city-bound train would be on time.

"Come and gone already" he replied shortly.

"But your schedule clearly states it would not leave Templeton

until 9:45" I said to the clerk crossly.

"This ain't Templeton, it's Finlay Corners" he told me.

I glanced up at the station sign. It said Finlay Corners.

Then I remembered that 'Uncle Soapy' was the name of an old

circus clown I used to know -- and not my uncle at all.

So I laughed the whole thing off and 

went white water rafting. 

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This poem was reviewed by a friend, who simply emailed:  "Interesting, and full of words I don't know and won't bother looking up because I'll forget them 5 minutes later."