They sit at plywood tables
In glass trapping of corporate progress,
Voyeurs to the moving crowd outside.
Towers of cream mopped up with dry chocolate sponges.
Collars turned up against the cold,
Umbrella mouths to catch the rain,
They move past slogans
(relevant to a chosen few)
which occupy the peeling paint of forgotten spaces
hide beneath it, in an effort to look clean.
Optimistic plant life peeks past skips and so called parks,
Witnesses to the narcissistic smothering of blue petrol on the Pool.
An invisible society.
I have been told it must be called 'BIG'
By CON-DEMed idiots,
Thrashing their whips,
Riding their diplomatic plates into the grave.