I wouldn’t be fretting about the extra minutes
The slow clerk at window three is making me wait
If I were more in harmony with the Christmas spirit,
Prepared to feel for an hour the flow of fellowship
That a saint is prepared to feel all year.
After all, now that I’m close enough to listen in,
It’s clear he isn’t staging a private slowdown
To vex the management, as I thought at first,
Or to punish his customers for waiting
Till Christmas week to send their gifts off.
No. The problem appears to be his courtesy,
His refusal to rush his explanations,
To stint even one of the options for shipping.
If I were a saint, I would think of myself
As fortunate to be standing just where I am,
With a good view of the attention he’s paying
To the gray-haired wife and husband
Now informing him that the big box
They’ve heaved to the counter contains a tricycle
For their sensitive grandson Herbert,
A sweet-tempered five-year-old, but sickly,
Who could use more exercise in the sun.
To watch the clerk behaving as if these two
Were his only customers of the day
Would suggest to me, if I were a saint,
That he’s one of the wise men,
Confident that the dispensation of time
Has been set aside for one more generous.
But to me as I am he seems oblivious,
Unaware he’s an accomplice in a robbery
That leaves me without the leisure I’ve promised others.
A clerk without common sense now increasing my loss
By accepting the photograph of the boy
That the couple hands him and holding it up
To the light to study it. But if I were a saint,
I’d feel blessed to witness his sober appreciation.
And I might decide to embrace his example,
Loyal for life to a modest master
Who’d never suppose he had a disciple,
Never presume he taught me anything.