They call this room the boardroom. But I’m not bored.
A windowed wall looks down on St Kilda Road, where a tram rattles by
Its bells sound through the room, like a missile warning.
A moments distraction, that disappears on its timely journey to the city.
Sit back, let the chair swallow you, as important people bear down upon you.
Look out across the sea of wood, that stretches out in front of you.
Divided by a black leather line, a design from the 90s.
The battle line. Can I surrender now?
Shoes rest on carpet, worn and torn from many a boardroom fight.
Ice green walls have no calming effect.
One man struts above. Begging for attention, with his no nonsense voice. The Manager. The Captain. An artist.
Painting a numerical picture across the whiteboard, in black, blue and red.
Telling a tale of revenue, budgets and availability of stock.
An attack plan. We’ll take the market by storm.
The troops sip their rations, soy lattes, no sugar. It smells like a freakin’ café in here.
Wearing fashionable suits. No scratches, no battle scars. No torn clothes, no limbs missing. Yet.
Go forth. Fight hard. Win every dollar. No retreat.
And we’ll see you at next week’s meeting.
