By Morgan Driscoll
There are no smiles in this quiet room
that smells of quiet coffee
and thrums in air-conditioned still.
The man onstage says “new trade bill”
far too many times,
hands unmoving by his sides
the words barely fluttering up to die,
bumping on crown moulding,
tangled in the chandelier.
There’s no one here
who wants to hear these words
that I would choose to meet
or more likely, they would choose to not meet me
were it not for blurring
of mercantile and mercenary.
But as it is, they trade me their attention
for my expertise and I
pretend to take an interest for a fee
and I, make sure their charts are crisp and clean,
and their voices can be heard,
and that all the arrows in their graphs are rose colored.
The eyes and ears who come to hear
these well staged shaded words
sit leg on knee, in padded ballroom chair
and sip and stare while they record on gadgets
more for show than used,
all their thoughts on margins and on revenue.
The money will be moving soon as
signals softly through the wires and the air,
passing by us unaware, accruing
interest, building industry and doing
all the things
you never really see it do:
plumping pillows,
leaving chocolate squares for bedfellows:
paramour/strangers through and through.
Morgan Driscoll lives in Connecticut and writes poetry to supplement his income as a commercial artist. He has been published in 30+ journals and anthologies and has made over $100. You can find his work in Humanist Magazine, The Penwood Review, The Orchards Poetry Journal, Constellate Magazine, Caesura, Northwest Indiana Literary Journal, The Avenue, Meetinghouse, Newtown Literary, and many other publications.