STAR WARS FAN POEM

A box cutter can reduce a napkin to lifting and falling

awkwardly, to turning slumberous. A light saber can't

do this. At the restaurant on Tatooine, both

respectively turn the napkin's movements into a

fair imitation of bat-wing air guitar. 

 

In the center of the table, a paperweight lies

decoratively in a bear trap – meant to put the patrons

in a social frame of mind. Making the sound of being

endowed with a jitter-organ – pacing the gregarious gene's

loud dial. Luke absently squeezes a french fry, petrified at the

sight of it unreeling its bitter chalk from within.

The Millennium Falcon sleeps on its appendix.

Han Solo's pocket protector bubbles over with sweat.

C3PO's aphasia when he later sees him naked is the weird 
hiss he likes to adopt when moonlighting among the other droids 
as shadows and layers of bad behavior.

The wookie hadn't gambled its way into pop culture;

rightfully, he was recognized earlier at the restaurant as

the doe-eyed philanderer. Practically a household name.

It's his piss-stain on the welcome mat outside.