the air smells like sweat
odd
is thinking really that taxing?
a pen lies forgotten on the floor
newspaper stows away in a chair rack
the passers-by hem in the halls outside
slowly our number grows
we are not silent
but do not deign to speak
each holds claim to his sacred island
of personal space
and this includes the airwaves
air conditioners hum
lights buzz quietly
fragments and ghosts of forgotten messages
grace the brownboard
tall and skinny enters
looking much like the folded umbrella he carries
we await the arrival of the midget ancient
who will imprison us then set us free …