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(A tribute to Herbert E. Long, Jr., on his birthday.)


“MONK” to MOGUL

When we were kids, my brother’s son
Was known to us as “Herbie.”
“Dad” called him “Monk,” and they had fun;
‘Cause little Monk was nervy.

Sofa-cushion as punching bag,
His dad would urge him hither.
“Come on, Monk; you’re tough,” he would brag;
And Monk not once would dither.

Times were hard; “Depression,” they said.
But siblings kept on coming.
Went North to South, in search of bread,
To keep the table humming.

Then came the war; things were less rough—
But not so you would notice.
And, they changed for our little tough;
The cushion became “Otis.”

The training that his dad had wrought,
At times, would come in handy.
The racist barbs the fam’ly caught
Were met in fashion manly.

The war was long; new things it made.
But, fin;ly came V-J Day.
Down Broad Street did we all parade—
Monk on my shoulder part-way.

Thereafter, soon, I would depart,
And come back very seldom.
While I was gone, my brother’s heart—
Did lose its causus bellum.

Monk, now more than his father’s son,
Accepted other duty.
His future toughness had begun:
His march toward bus’ness booty.

Herb’s fam’ly came; began to grow.
He searched out all the chances.
From Washington, ideas would flow,
Attracting young Herb’s glances.

So, there it was, that little spark
That often makes big changes.
Herb tarried not; got on his mark;
Dashed where the bold man ranges.

Through skillful years, his acumen
Was honed and deftly sharpened.
The former “Monk” did not offend;
To bus’ness ploys he harkened.

As wandered I in desert sand,
Bereft of an oasis,
One day, Herb called with offer grand,
Employment as its basis.

The little kid who one day sat,
There, perched upon my shoulder,
Had now reversed an action that
Made me feel so much older.

The gesture that Herb showed to me,
Is merely an example
Of how young “Monk” had come to be
“Herb”—generously ample.


Curtis W. Long
July, 2009