“Oh, man, that flip-phone’s toast!” coughs
the sales dude at the iStore in the outlet mall
before muscling me into an upgrade
G. Bell himself would’ve called
bullshit on.  With a switchblade on a
bracelet he slits the copper wrapper
of a smartphone that will render me
dumb again—my thimbleful of techno-
info a nemesis that throws each round—

and fires it up.  Meanwhile, I zoom
to old BU, where Watson’s sipping soup
just as Bell elbows the acid that prompts his
iconic yelp.  Three-piece tweeds—ready-made
or the tailored upgrade—make the brightest
prone to spilling—and as I’m considering
switching from my flannels and dungarees
the iDude flags me back from Boston: “Mr.
Dimson…come here…I want to fleece you.”

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