Westport Quakers

‘Twas the night before book sale, and all through the meeting house
Not a spine out of place, not even a louse;
The signs were hung by the tents with care,
In hopes that our customers knew our prices were fair;
The hotdogs were nestled all snug in the fridge;
With visions of soft buns with mustard- just a smidge;
And Gretchen in her ‘kerchief, bagging up Tabbouleh,
Was hoping that the porta potty lines would not get unruly.
When from the meeting house there arose such a clatter,
I put down my whistle polish to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the door and began to dash.
The moon on the breast of the white vinyl tents,
Gave a lustre of heaven over the 6 for 100 cents.
When what to my wondering eyes did appear,
But a miniature Whitman, Frost and Shakespeare
With a dark haired Kerouac, lively and quick
I knew in a moment it was a beatnick.
More rapid than eagles the authors they came,
And I whistled, and shouted, and called them by name:
“Now, Hemingway! Now, Plath! Now Faulkner and Alcott!
On, Capote! On, Poe! On, Thompson and Dahl!
To the community house! To the stacks in the hall!
Now sort away! Sort away! Sort away all!”
As baked goods that before closing time fly,
Or mothers on a mission seeking a section on DIY
So over the tables the writers they flew
With a pen and paper, and typewriters too—
And then, in a wrinkling, I heard on the roof
The pacing and guffawing, and was that a woof?
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney Stephen King came with a bound.
He was dressed like an old clown, from his head to his foot,
And his glasses were covered with ashes and soot;
A single red balloon he held out to me,
And I took IT, although somewhat reluctantly.
His blue eyes—how they twinkled! His smile, how scary!
His teeth were quite yellow, his nose like a cherry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up in a bow,
And the makeup he wore was as white as snow;
The stump of a pencil he held tight in his teeth,
As his red wig encircled his head like a wreath;
He was muttering to himself as he scribbled a line,
“Give edits to Agatha, page 70, Chapter 9.”
He was dressed as his character! A frightening old clown,
And I laughed as my blood pressure began to come down;
He shook my hand and with a nod of his head
Reminded me that there was much work ahead;
He spoke not a word, as he sorted through books,
Earmarking pages; and giving strange looks.
As night turned to dawn, the stories came to life
I was dozing off to Tolstoy when I woke up to my wife—
“Greg!” Melinda called, “Wake up, it’s Book Sale morning!”
And placing my index finger over my mouth, gave Tom Robbins a warning.
“Coming Dear!” I sprang from bed and grabbed my trusty whistle
And as I came to, the characters flew, away like the down of a thistle.
Later I stood at 10:59 looking out at the crowd of book lovers,
The sun was hot, but the breeze was brisk as the readers scanned the covers.
Recalling last night’s literary dream, I turned and faced the crowd,
And counted down from 10 to 1, then blew my whistle loud!

Adaptation of ‘Twas the Night Before Christmas, by Rebecca Lee Hudson, 2019