In concentric rows they sit,
stand, and display their wildfire
red or tsunami blue plumage
strutting and posing, posturing, like so many
magnificent birds
in heat.
“Look at me!” “Look at me!” They beg
through veneered smiles. Professing truths
with fork-ed tongues.
Forming committees to form
committees. Planning meetings to plan
meetings. Conducting hearings
about the hearings. All-the-while, throwing
shade with sideways glances
as they stamp
out Progress.
The Earth spins, the seasons pass,
crops and wars come
and go
like ant-hill dictators.
Currency, their Commander,
Personal Gain,
their Objective.
The Five Hundred and Thirty-Eight—
this is their Thermopylae.
A Spartan, each they see,
beholding the mirror.
The paper piles high
in the wake
of Battle.
Behold the great deeds.
Proclaim the accomplishments.
Praise the mighty as they
trample
each
other.