Strolling studiously slow
In my sticky fingers
Focused on near attention
Pretending not to linger

Instant potatoes
Waxen beans
Tawdry fixens
Minimum means

Casting glances not quite furtive
Certainly not knowing
Connecting in my mind
With the place I am going

Clinking on plastic
Trays and cheap silver
Cardboard milk boxes
Cold peas all a dither

Across the room
Corner of my eye
A big handle comb
Flies through the sky

Crowd stops and watches
The clinking gets quiet
No chew and no swallow
Awaiting the diet

Of luck or of shame
Of coolness or lame
By catching or dropping
Will it bring him great fame?

Windows part foggy
With fingertip scrawls
Floor kinda sticky
With smashed up meatballs

Barely a motion
Slight turn of hand
Comb in my fingers
I stop still and stand

Don’t look surprised
I think in my head
If they think it a’ purpose
You’ll win them instead

Hesitation erupts
In a rapturous cheer
I loft the green comb
With a wave and a leer

For now in this instant
Flung on me by chance
I’ve become quite a man
In my bell-bottom pants