Prose Poem: The Man with the Blue Trunk.

 

But I woke up one morning

without a nose;

instead I had a blue trunk.

Like an elephant.

I had granola and yogurt

for breakfast, like always.

My roommate didn't say

a word about the change.

But he took down the medicine

chest mirror in the bathroom.

It was awkward brushing my teeth.

I took the bus to work.

I heard one guy say to another:

"Must be a new show on Disney."

But otherwise people just looked

as normal and weary as always.

I had processed my condition by then.

It intrigued me, but did not

disturb me.

Nothing bad was going to happen.

I was a man with a blue trunk.

It didn't make me any better

or worse than anyone else.

I could just hold a watermelon

while playing the piano.

My boss at work called me 

into his office.

He asked me to check on 

last month's sales statistics.

As I left his office he said:

"Oh, by the way -- I already told

the main office about your blue trunk.

They want to move you into the broom

closet, so as not to distract your 

co-workers."

I asked for this in writing.

When I got it I found a good lawyer.

We won the discrimination case 

hands down.

But the monetary fine is tied up

in the Solicitor General's office.

Something about cybercurrency.

But later that same month

as I was walking down the

street to Chipotle for lunch

I was stopped by a police officer.

"Just routine" he assured me

as he took my arm to guide

me to the precinct station.

Inside the station the desk sergeant

spoke with an Irish brogue.

Not in a panic, but in a cool

analytical way, I began

to suspect that although I 

was not dreaming, I was

probably in an old black 

white movie.

And when I saw Allen Jenkins

sitting on a bench. looking

vacantly stupid, 

I knew I was at Warner Brothers.

Joan Blondell was being booked

nearby for soliciting.

The desk sergeant asked

if I wanted a lawyer.

I said yes. I thought I'd get

someone like Ronald Reagan

or Leslie Howard.

I refused to say another word

until my lawyer arrived.

"Here's your lawyer"

said the desk sergeant finally.

Then I knew I was in deep trouble.

It was Hugh Herbert.