A poem about meeting rooms

What happens when an Oxford-based branch of a faceless multinational tries to be human and quirky:

It would be too dull, said the powers that be,
To name our three meeting rooms “A”, “B” and “C”!
They had consultations, discussions, a vote,
And called each one after a city of note.

This lets an employee cry: “I’m just off home:
I’ll meet you tomorrow, in ‘Paris’, or ‘Rome!'”
And then, once their dutiful laughter subsides,
They look at each other with despairing eyes.

This entry was posted in art, commerce, occupation, poetry, production, society. Bookmark the permalink.

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