The Returned Thought

Scene: A bookshop. Steve stands behind the counter. A middle-aged man enters, walking sideways.

STEVE:
Good morning! What can I help you find today?

MAN:
(sharply)
Not finding. Returning.

STEVE:
Ah. A book?

MAN:
A thought.

STEVE:
…Sorry?

MAN:
(pacing)
It started here. I came in last Thursday for a look around. Ever since, I’ve had a thought in my head. It won’t leave. It keeps turning into poetry.

STEVE:
Poetry?

MAN:
Like this:

There once was a thought that was free,
It went on about biscuits and tea,
It stayed in my head,
Even while I made bread,
And then wrote a poem about a flea.

STEVE:
Well, that’s not bad—

MAN
I HATE poetry.

STEVE:
Right. So… you’d like to return the thought?

MAN:
Yes. Immediately. Or swap it for something about plumbing.

STEVE:
I’m afraid we don’t deal in thoughts, sir. Just books.

MAN:
You must! It started in here! I was in the humour section and something crawled into my brain!

STEVE:
(muttering)
Could’ve been the Spike Milligan…

MAN:
Exactly! That bloody Milligan! Rhymes on toast, sonnets in the loo… It’s infected me.

STEVE:
(shrugging)
Well, if you must rhyme, try this:

There once was a chap with a moan,
Who stormed in and wouldn’t go home,
I offered a brew,
He shouted “YABOO!”,
Now I’m hiding behind the trombone.

MAN:
You’re not helping!

STEVE:
I’m rhyming defensively.

MAN:
(snapping)
Fine! I’m off to the butcher’s.

STEVE:
Tell them you’ve got a thought that needs trimming.

MAN:
(shouting as he exits)

There once was a shop full of glee,
But it turned rather nasty to me,
So I’ll find a new muse,
One with fewer haikus—
And less bloody tea!

The door slams. Steve exhales, then quietly puts the kettle on.