I'm in San Francisco, in a flat on Geary Street
in a drooping flock of writers and reporters:
migrant birds of news (I won't say vultures).
What putrid cow of culture do we tear and eat?
Never mind. Too tired tonight. Too late.
Talk ebbs to whisper; we sag to sleep, sardined
on beds, couches, even the rug--except for three.
A florid old newsman, hard-drinking by the red
Amazonian delta of his facial veins aglow,
interviews author Orson Scott Card, who says:
"Yes, perceptive question. In my new book,
as in my early work like Wyrms, the trick
is to work out personal obsessions, yet
let the book totter on the verge of sick;
never quite enrage the fans, but do upset."
I'm a fan of Card's, and start to interject
"I felt that about Wyrms and--" catch myself!
I nearly added "Firefly"--not Card at all,
Piers Anthony. I blush to link poor Card to that!
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But author and newshound both are far
too beat to hear a sleep-addled fan.
Card shuffles to a full bed, hits the deck;
in moments he's out of play, face-down.
Droopy news-beagle flops on a couch. I ask
"What paper you with?" "Uh Delly Noozh."
His fist wields no heroic pen--instead,
shiny pliers and crescent wrenches.
I joke "What fine new clubs to slap
me with, for keeping you from bed."
He grunts a trollish motorboat note
and rolls off the sofa to the floor!
In seconds, Big Drunk Wolf's first snore.
Now what? Sleepers all around. Bored.
Thirsty, squeeze lemonjuice in water,
drink. Bored. Yawn. So dull awake alone!
And then learn I'm not: I wake again.
For real? Just one more snoring brain.
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