Seventeen Boxes

The paper was handed in awkward hush -
a wodge folded like an accordion -
my smile was ill-judged, but rather than run
I floated towards the booth on the rush

and unfurled the beast with veneration
I'd normally save for a sacred tract;
I gawped in awe at variety acts
from loner kooks to the Robot Nation.

I fixed on my cross in a cloud of fear:
Had I moored my boat with Nasty McFoul?
Reassured, I folded the inky towel
and assumed my place in the Demosphere.