Lawrence And Herbert At The Dealer Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

That blasted dream again.
I was in the neighbourhood
where gangsters of big business
and small sandwich shops compete.
Six big ones in my pocket,
hot and ready, still conversing
with a well-used and colourful
French handkerchief, combed cotton,
the salesman wears his altruistic smile
above the golden buttons over navy blue.

'You're in the market for a car? '
he rolls it of his agile fork-ed tongue,
my absent nod directs itself not far
where, in the showroom, right among
other hopefuls stands a friendly figure
sounds and looks familiar, pinstriped suit
overhear him saying he wants something bigger
with a cavernous (for bootleggers?) boot.

Voice is cultured, teeth a shade of white
then it dawns on me, it's poemhunter's star
yes I'm sure I do remember, yes, I'm right
it's Lawrence of P/H, called Pertillar.

We start to reminisce at once and well,
the dealership has never previously assembled
in one big hall among the cars but not to sell
no, to hear poetry from us, one salesman even trembled
when the romantic stuff was next presented.
And as time flew a crowd had gathered shyly,
it was as if the enterprise had re-invented
itself and all its minions for this highly
and utterly fantastic new recitals
so this went on for hours as they raved
at last the Manager requested that all titles
be written down and all the poems saved.

The boss was youngish looking due to nips and tucks
gray temples and blue eyes each arm a Rolex,
he veritably smelled of greenbacks, meaning many bucks
a dead fish handshake underlined his name, 'I'm Tex',
and he invited us into the sanctum full of plush.
Pulled out a couple forms and started writing
while asking us 'you guys in any rush? '
He then proceeded, was in fact, surprisingly, inviting
the two outstanding poets to accept and take
a luxury, spitpolished motorcar, completely free of cost
one each of course, Mercedes was the make.

He chuckled when he saw that poets can be lost
and have no words in store for some occasion.
'My father was the greatest poet in this land,
he wrote a thousand poems like others write equations,
and French chansons that none could understand,
I've waited for this day like Jesus for his resurrection,
and talent must be thoroughly appreciated.
Today you've tickled me, the word is predilection
and look at all the people here, so titillated.....'.

We left that night, our asses pressing leather
still wondering and humming 'you are mine',
the cars would be a shock to Jan and Heather
then the alarm went off, a voice said 'rise and shine'.