The minutes would read, “how to ration people”.
Tate crouched near the whiteboard, sometimes chiming in to attack my character, but mostly disguising silent judgments about the room with an understimulated child’s stare into a stenographer’s pad.
I leaned back comfortably across from him, amidst our partners – a Paiute surrounded by the other messengers.
They’ll celebrate my departure before
they’ll mourn it,
no longer snide,
I’ll make the four cent stamp.