His voice fills the squawk box:
a Westerner in a white, ten-gallon hat
like those worn by Saturday morning superheroes
who battled outlaws, recovered the gold, and won the girl.
He says the obelisk in the center of town
reminds him of Donald Duck.
I don't see it.
Bill's Bicycle Shop now has a phone.
We can call in our reservations and drop off our resumes.
I'd like a quiet table overlooking the aquifer
with enough intimacy to exclude bike messengers
who keep insisting that rowdy riding
is what good deliveries are all about.
Some have even taken to the streets on rollerblades
wearing helmets, elbow and knee pads, gloves.
I think it started with Madonna.
The screenwriter's guild is a presence worth emulating
especially when the wait staff keep us waiting like this.
The blackberries along the bike path
were delicious in the nineties
but most likely will be gone when we return
from our trip to the hinterland
where the locals claim to have seen fish fly
and restauranteurs cower.
He said he'll keep riding until it snows.
Good for him!
She introduced a touching anecdote about pussy willows
which sped the meeting along
until a hireling in sequined cummerbund announced
that the buffet was ready despite rumors to the contrary.
