His metaPhone (Q 1) holstered on his belt and boasted like a pearl-handled spatula a fine tweezer feature purest in the kitchen but as a mycophagist on vacation he was slow to get the picture: he should have left the phone at home.
She skiffed his phone like a stone across the stream and it smacked the face of a rapid rose to the lip and flipped onto the river rocks where it slipped like a fish and caught between silly and sorry mess
while the water ebbed aback and swirled about him he dove again and again for the mother-of-pearl case for his applications and poisonous twins and recipies his personal algorithms and desserts
calendars his files and messages tips and notes settings and cameras and his unfinished Joy of… his meals his awards medals commendations his secret usernames passwords fundamental
identities his capabilities capacities radio interface multi-mode banking signaling his data to Universe. Drown rather than lose his cell. They were supposed to be on vacation, but he was on his cell phone
and while he was on his call stung was she by the venomous double away they swam leaving him and his phone in the hot sand where he smelled the world at his feet.
Now we must close our caper of the nose before the plot thickens the dickens to play for a meal is saga but a poem mere snack one is shared the other kept under the hat.