Canto III

Before he could digest this strange discovery,
Our hero heard some rhubarb from his abdomen,
Then in sequence, with scant time to recover, he
Felt the pangs of hunger. As they jabbed him in
The gut, he sought to end the fisticuffery
Of craving, while on the street he saw a cab come in
And skid to stop--the driver hoped to park it
Across the way at Reading Terminal Market.

To find a sop to soothe his angry belly,
Xavier (or as he might be christened, Savor)
Eschewed the local Wawa's quasi-deli,
Preferring more diverse arrays of flavor:
Pierogies, toro, blintzes, dried gemelli.
With gusto at one stand he said, "Por favor,
A Spanish omelet," which then el gran Don Javier
Consumed as though it were the finest caviar.

Le Bus baguettes and sticky buns from Beiler's,
A host of treats from France and some from Germany
Our Savor munched and looked at Emerald Islers'
Handmade goods at Annie's, while at Termini
Bros., cannoli were stacked. "That pastry piler's
A slicker director of showy tarts than Baz Luhrmann," he
Opined with relish. Soon, however, graver
Thoughts returned in the form of the other Xavier.

Turning his mind again to times and dates,
He grasped for any simple explanation
For copied files having unlike mates
(Ignoring in the meantime fragrant Haitian
Sweet potato cakes and steaming plates
Of grits with shrimp and some grits sans crustacean),
Yet foremost in his mind among the reasons
Was that his mother had not two but three sons.

"A brother?" cried out Savor as he chewed
His way through several hunks of shoofly pie
Away from which a host of flies he shooed,
But as he waved his hand he caught the eye
Of someone who'd been looking for him. "Dude,"
Exclaimed the seeker, "I don't know why,
But I'm supposed to give you this brochure."
With that he turned and cheesed it out the door.

Bemused at first by "Dude," and then perplexed
By what was in his hand now, Savor squinted,
Scanning every letter of the text--
A booklet pushing "Cadmen," badly printed.
And in a line that someone double-Xed,
The last name Griffin, thickly circled, hinted...
"At what?" he muttered, lost in stupefaction
Until an oil spot compromised his traction.

Upended by a slick of extra virgin,
Our hero felt he'd landed in a pickle.
Just when he had sensed that he was verging
On meaty findings came this vexing prickle:
Who or what was Griffin? Who was urging
Him to swim upstream in just a trickle
Of starveling hints? And how? And why? His eye
Then caught upon a marginal marking: "Y."

If that initial stood for who had written,
Then "Griffin" was a clue. Why choose to flummox
Instead of writing clearly? He had bitten
More than could be handled by his stomach's
Juices, he feared. "Do all these pieces fit in
To make a useful map? I'm such a lummox
That even if they do, I'll never see 'em"--
He stopped himself mid-thought--"The Art Museum!"

[8:00 / breakfasting / ottava rima / stomach / Reading Terminal]