while the presenter and the organizer and the guy from the front row
fiddle with the projector,
a big woman in a small metal chair
by the exit
holds a slice of pizza
it hangs limp and sweaty
like a tired dog's tongue

the black olive
lodged on her chest
rides the wave of her contented
exhalations
i am pretty certain
she'll be the first to bolt
once the pizza's eaten.

and i
i am putting on my best show
of interest
loading up my paper pad balanced on my knees
with chunks of wisdom, sage cutlets
of technological insight
but the fan above is unimpressed,
it will not clap
just whirs,
shuffling the air, knocking
listless flies off course

i wish these chairs would screech
but they just emit a dull low rumble
and the beige carpet only sighs
when it's trodden on

i think of all that i have not done
and will never do
the hours wasted, the days torn
like the calendar beside the light switch
june ripped in half

as i
place big black bullets
beside a list of next month's
topics

the sun strolls in late
slides down the wall
and collapses
by the garbage can.