Death In a Lunch Hour

he entered the room as if rice was about to boil over, seeing faces of those he didn't recognise look as though they were reading the last line of a book they never read before, staggered, asymmetrically pensive in times during coffee servings and bites from donuts, but, given that it was only midday, the flavour of the waitresses grumbled in overlapping office lunch hours. little did our hero, who entered with arched cat-back whiteness, know, his un- expected audience, delivering blank verse in motor- cycle and side-car loads, were systematically only there to make up the numbers, merely propping up the inward burst of off the street heart attacks, the last hope of ever thwarted reasoning and too the waitresses were cardboard.