Wednesday Afternoon, 2:00 pm


Tables rattle and scrape on the floor.
Somebody drops a pen.
Another bangs his ruler on his desk.
“Is that a mobile phone in your pocket?” somebody jokes.
A collective shout as a young woman appears on the TV.
At times the noise is deafening.


Tinfoil balls cross the room,
Back and forth for several seconds.
Crude graffiti written discreetly offers a glimpse
Of somebody’s personal opinions of a friend
They want to make the centre of a joke.

We truly are the elite.

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