The Magic List

 

The letter came on Sunday night -- 

an unheard of thing by the USPS;

but the mailman knocked on my door

that night just as I was making hot cocoa,

dressed in my robe and slippers,

and handed me the envelope with

nary a word of explanation,

except to say "Special Delivery."

The envelope was franked 

from the Department of Justice

in Washington D.C.

I couldn't imagine what it was,

but it sure made me nervous.

So I drank my hot cocoa first

and then turned on a cheery 

Netflix yuletide fireplace. 

Now I felt cocooned enough

to face anything the Federal government

might throw at me.

I slit the letter open and

took out the thick parchment-like

paper --

notifying me that I had been taken off

The List.

"What list?" I said out loud,

to no one in particular.

I was soon to find out.

On Monday I went shopping for 

soda crackers, liverwurst, and butter.

At the automatic checkout stand

a buzzer sounded when I swiped the

barcode on the butter.

"Sorry" said a big burly man

in a white apron, "but you're 

not allowed to have any more butter."

"Huh?" I said through my mask,

feeling my mouth go dry. "What's that?"

"You're no longer on The List" he replied,

taking the butter out of my grocery bag.

Later that week I was in the park,

enjoying the way the evergreens were

bowed down under the recent snowfall.

A cop came up to me, looking me up and down,

and asked: "Are you Elmore Wiggins?"

"Yes, I am" I replied, even though I'm not --

I just wanted to see what would happen.

"Well, Mr. Wiggins, you should know better

than to loiter in this park looking at the evergreens"

the cop said severely. "You've been taken off The 

List, you know."

Now I had him dead to rights,

the overbearing momser.

"It just so happens" I told him haughtily,

pulling out my wallet,

"that I am NOT Elmore Wiggins,

my fine feathered friend --

my name is Timothy Osborne Marmalade!"

And I stuck my driver's license 

right under his big fat nose.

"So you are" replied the cop, squinting at my ID.

"So you are." 

He turned silently and stalked away,

without uttering another word.

Boy, did I feel good that night

when I got home!

Like I had fought the whole 

carnsarn Federal government and won!

To celebrate I brewed up a pot of Postum

and asked the neighbor lady over --

the one who keeps a cricket in a 

small bamboo cage --

to have some with me,

along with liverwurst on crackers.

We stayed up laughing, snacking,

and being giddy

until almost ten that night.

And the next day

the very next day

nothing untoward happened.

So now I keep a cricket in a 

small bamboo cage

and buy pounds of butter 

at a time without any more hassle.

Of course, I've drawn a black mustache

on my face mask to disguise myself . . .