there's a hangout on the roof,
some plastic chairs and cable
spools. it must've been done
when the boss wasn't looking.
zack had forty eight hours,
a plasma television,
and a dead telephone.
and no intention to recharge it.
the pyramid a few blocks away
winked it's red midnight eye.
he cued up the video on the screen:
bamboo skeletons dance a tango
as bandoneons begin to moan
and a white sousaphone
with a flaming tongue declaims
a manifesto in a chipmunk voice falsetto:
free cantalope for antelopes,
but none for misanthropes,
and plenty of planetary razzmatazz
for any lobsters conversant with jazz.
at that moment the door to roof
flew open and roger the boss
stepped out. what the hell is this
he cried, your assignment
was for thirty seconds of laundry
detergent. instead you hide out up here.
are you on drugs or is it some kind of
psychotic break? do i call the cops
or an ambulance? speak up son,
i don't have all night, i've got a hot date
at the rifle range with a gal who is itching
to squeeze a few rounds off my .357.
zack sat back in his patio chair
and said, this IS your spot,
don't you like it? nobody will be talkin'
bout anything else when this hits the air.
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