As the cellist played a gigue, Bach,
at Virgil's, a cantina on Salem Street

known for their garlic martinis,
I overheard a man say to a woman:

we'll be flying to London to see Queen
at Wembley, without Freddie Mercury,

once again. And that's how I knew
how I knew it was spring, how I knew

it was time to wax my barque, my balls,
wipe the dew off my cheval mirror

to reckon who's the prettiest of all,
and beckon the huntsman's long knife.