Oak panelled kitsch,
portraits loured from the walls,
( there were thirteen in all )
a pair of councillors shared a private joke
others shuffled papers,
business like, professional,
one slept peacefully,
like a dormouse in a teapot,
unheeded by his neighbours’ vacant stares.
Only the chairman fixed me to my seat,
with an incandescent glare.
His birdlike secretary
flicked a single sheet of paper
across the glistening divide.
What was the question?
Not ‘What the fuck am I doing here?’
What was my reply,
with one eye on the sarcastic clock,
the other on the gothic ceiling,
vainly searching for the sky?
I forget, but guess what?
The chairman’s nephew
claimed the vacant slot.
The picture shows Swansea's Guildhall tower. You might remember that in another poem I referred to the fact that Hitler had earmarked this for his regional seat of government when the Nazis successfully invaded. It's true. You can check it out. He was a really stupid man, who never realised that he didn't need to invade at all!
Ouch... Nice interview, eh? YOu're better off without it, they, on the other hand, are most certainly not.
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