by Nick Gisburne
He cannot bear to listen, so he screams,
Ferocity erupting from his throat.
Inside, his passion, softer than it seems,
Embraces every drama, every vote.
The growler, front and centre, makes a fist,
But thinks again before it meets a face.
The quiet girl’s delusions still persist.
She drums her fingers, staring into space.
The screamer, coming down from his release,
Is ready once again to state his case.
The women in the corner make their peace,
Determined to evacuate this place.
They love to guess who did it on TV,
But some are far too tipsy to agree.
