It's the last day of semi-CON-scious
and you swear no matter how long
the line is for Alice Mutton autographs
you'll brave it for an inscription
from Hirokazu, that dreamy drummer.
You've packed three decks of cards
in your rucksack, can offset
the autograph fee with competitive
solitaire, or so goes your plan.
You beeline when the doors open
and get in when the line is only half
a block long. The person in front
of you has a ponytail that hasn't
been washed since the Nixon
administration, a twitch in his
right hand. You throw down
the gauntlet with a quick ruffle
and we're off to the races, a nickel
a point. By the time you make
the table you're up a hundred
twenty-five. You move to exchange
cards for CDs, but then you look
up and see a familiar gleam
in Hirokazu's eyes. Better order
lunch, today may be the day you retire.
