You posited gremlins in the asphalt, pixies

under the counter at Nervous Dog, a plurality

of health code violations hidden beneath

your burritos decebrados. Somewhere, you

said, in the sewers under Whole Foods

it resides, and by gum, you aimed to find

it, cut it out, eat it still beating with a gremolata

poached in an orange construction barrel.

In preparation you placed stacks of Marshalls

at every manhole, pumped She Walks Crooked

at maximum volume, knew you had just

a few minutes before the Woods of Fairlawn

residents reported you for noise violations.

The last I saw of you was on the ladder

in the middle of West Market in front

of the Fairlawn Taco Bell, tools strapped

to your back, headlamp ablaze. You would

approach, you said, from outside the perimeter,

a bottle of retsina in each hand, and follow

the aborted Google Fiber cables until you found

the core of the beast. The sun rose, my

bourbon is gone, and if I eat one more

seven layer burrito things will get messy,

and still there is no sign of your return.