THE CLAM PEDDLER
He comes to the door three times a week,
The clam peddler, clad in overalls,
Jumper and long hip rubber boots,
Which, in fair weather, are rolled at the knees.
His form is bent from stooping in the mud,
His hands and face are weather cracked
From long exposure to wind and sun and rain,
And yet he has a kindly face
Beneath the grayish stubble and the spots
Of clam mud sometimes clinging there.
He cries out, “Clams! Steamers, opened, long or round!”
At the back door, and his voice is clear
And pleasing, and suggests humor and good cheer,
But that is only Yankee bluff – he’s after trade.
His eyes – they tell the story all too well.
He’s hopeless, hard, passé, a work machine,
A fool of fate who goes at every tide
And paws over the reeking mud for clams.
His back aches, he swears and thinks hard thoughts,
But whacks and holds on until his basket’s full,
Then pulls his wracked body together and goes
And peddles them from door to door.
He has no vision. The only things he sees
Are mudflats, clams, nickels and dimes,
And then the village inn and – void.
He idles, carouses when the tide is high,
And when it’s low he slouches to the flats again.
But what of the clam peddler, after all?
He’s a human being; he works and eats and drinks
Like thousands of men in every walk of life,
And he’s as happy and as successful as they,
And brings as much good to humankind.
So why turn him from the door with a snarl?
If you don’t want to buy “Clams! Steamers, opened, long
or round,”
The least you can do is wish him well.
JOE
CONE.
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