Who’s your Dada?

(Nobody’s getting famous 

around here)

61 today, the sexily graying at the temples busboy

buses his last table and clocks out 

in the kitchen. 

See you tomorrow, says someone, theoretically

his boss. 

That’ll be the fucking day, says the busboy.

You’re fired! (the boss) For profanity! 

That’s more like it! (busboy) For perpetuity, too, I hope!

The busboy takes the subway uptown to Juilliard 
and applies for a job: Cello, First Chair. (Or, male chanteuse.)  

Amazingly, after the paperwork, he has an interview 

in five minutes. 

The music department chair pulls one up

and asks 

Can you tell me what a flatted fifth is? 

Oui Madame, I can (says the ex-busboy). 

It’s when you throw a gin bottle out the window

on the West Side Highway. 

You’re hired (says the musical chair).

Can you tell me something about yourself? 

I was fired an hour ago. 

Mon Dieu! Why would you tell me that?

So I can rhyme the end of this poem. 

Oh, I see. Fired, and hired. Good.

When do I begin?

Now.

The end. (Or is it?)