Meeting With The Social Work Administrators

Soft gestured; Light falling on the faces just so.

All blood rinsed out and sailing off to the sea sand shore.

Words cleaned with silica,

Each turned in upon itself, a polished snail.

They chant polices.

Who made policies?

God made policies.

Their eyes are glazed in a familiar dream.

Many are the offices.

Many are the beehives humming.

Never are there enough parking spaces.

Holy are the many forms of many forms.

Blessed the flow charts. Sacred the silos.

Faces buffed. Fingers manicured.

There is enough honey to preserve the bodies forevermore.

They arrive in six separate cars

And leave in six separate cars.

Two speak. The other four utter not a word.