Analysts at Lunch

The ironed shirts revolved. Spin, one. Spin, two.
The last one trailed. Spin, three.
The mimeo-machine completed clones of men.
"Magrites," the waiter cursed. He raised his brow
and pulled the menus, then mahogany. He sat the men as ties,
distinguished only by their fingerprints as Paisley, Stripes, and Splash.

They clicked their cases under trailing cloth and buttered
parquet floors with inky sheets which no one saw.
His chair upon the arrowed fractions, Paisley finger-formed a three and called
for chicken wings and Pabsts. The waiter nodded, rolled his eyes,
and hid his hissing under hopefulness for tips.

In seven 60-second sweeps, utensils envied greasy fingers.
Napkins wrapped their laps and lips as bones were tossed, the ammunition
hitting symbols. In the randomness, transparent epicenter tips for traders
met with far-from-analytic laughs. They picked their papers up
but left, beside the bill, a scribbled note that shrunk the waiter's fists.

Later, you just might find this humerus...