Male Veteran Entreprenuer: A Personnel's Ad For A Shopkeeper

The porcelain doll sat in the window alone
Just an item to gaze at, not one to own
She was a familiar part of that little store
And like the shop itself, she was left there to adore

It didn't make much money at any regular rate
It was but the result of one man's happy fate
He was the veteran of an unpopular war
He had almost nothing left to live for

His legs lost in battle, but he got around
In a wheelchair himself, because he was proud
They called him L.T., for that was his rank
He fought for his country, and this was his thanks

A letter of discharge, a few medals for flare
No severance pay, not even a prayer
What had he done to deserve such reward
Three letters indicate: P.risoner O.f W.ar

He had to be rescued, a costly affair
He let his entire platoon down, leaving them there
Most died right out, in battle or executions
Others fell mercy to their own isolated delusions

So it had to be, Lt. Charlie Buchwald took the blame
They were his men, he would live with that shame
He had to leave town, they hated him in his own
And he found one that finally felt like home

Another lake town that flowed into a stream
Where he could build his own American dream
A rebel against the propaganda machine
The store's power came from the cheer that it'd bring

The only question remained up in the air
Charlie knew why and how, now he wondered where
As he pondered these things from the safety of his chair
He was startled by a cab swerving into the curb
And onto the sidewalk stepped -- oh, my God -- it was HER!

Who was she? You ask, no one to him yet
But Charlie would like to change that, given the chance
She entered a flower shop, so he followed her too
Putting on her apron, she stammered, "Can I have you -- help you?"

Now whether she stuttered, or Charlie simply misheard
He became defensive at the mere tone of that word
"Why would you do that?" He bites with all the strength of his jaws
The woman recoiled beneath his anger, yet alleged no cause

The day is defeated, the battle is done
Though one retreated, nobody won
Charlie opened his shop right next door
And began shopping around
For trinkets to sell
In his vintage toy store

Then one hot summer night
As he laid down on a small single cot in the back of the shop
He became deeply disturbed when he heard someone knock
Someone knocking upon the back door's metal slate
No one else ever used it to get in, why would they?

The knocking persisted with his paranoid thoughts
But as he reached for his chair, he fell out of the cot
And onto the cold cement floor, in nothing save his socks and his pants
His dark eyes glared at the chair, mocking this dance

He pulled himself up, a laborious task
But one he'd been used to in the recent past
He wheeled toward the door that had never been opened before
Charlie managed the lock, but the intruder flung wide the door
So suddenly and with such stolen force
He almost pushed Charlie back into the store

"Oh, my God, I'm sorry," The young man explained,
"I own Sally's Flowers beside you, are you in pain?"
"Always," Charlie smiled, but all he wore was a sigh
"Are you Sally?" He asked, a fish hook over his eye

"No, silly," the man said, with a lisp that needed no advocation
"Santa came early and left you a gift, but he missed the location."
Though put off by these overt displays of affection
Charlie tried to push past all signs of tension

In favor instead of the heavy box in his hands
"My co-worker sent this. She says, good luck with your plans."
Charlie turned the box over and saw behind the glass
A porcelain doll, the only beauty that lasts

The doll was perfect, which seemed to beg Charlie to ask:
"Why give this to me? She is everything a doll should be!"
The florist sighed simply, "She's not a play thing,
And my friend's brats are talking about getting a puppy."

"She has children?" Charlie barely says, turning into himself
His hands still on the package, "She I cannot sell!"
The porcelain doll remains in the shop's window
And over the years, only Charlie grows old

Living conditions change, the cot is sold for scrap
Charlie uses the front door to care for the beauty that lasts
More children frequent the shop, of all ages it seems
To one trapped in time, the same faces range from toddler to teen

And it happens, Charlie Buchwald is buried in the local cemetery
And the children bring the porcelain doll to the brief ceremony
And maybe, Charlie dreams, still holding the one he cannot sell
Now back on the same old cot he half-forgot,
Dreaming things of prophecy or wishful thinking, he cannot tell