Look at the Mayor.

Go on: look.

Don't worry.

He won't look you in the eye.

The Mayor.

He won't look back at you.

Go on: look.

He is impeccable.

Admire him.

He won't see you.

Count the stripes on his shirt, the four consonants in a row.

R. T. H. W.

Wonder at his tie.

Who selected that tie for him?

Mayor.

Say it.

Mayor.

Labor.

He is thinking about cocktails.

As he calmly takes notes on the female speaker

He writes: cocktail wieners.

Cocktail onions.

Green olives.

Tiny umbrellas.

Ice.

Plastic champagne glasses.

Look at Ward 6 whispering something to Ward 7 that Ward 7 finds amusing while the woman speaks.

Look at the shine on his head.

He is chuckling, thinking about linguine.

Scallops.

Calamari.

He can't appreciate a good cigar.

He is impotent, but he respects a man that can.

Like the mayor.

The mayor is handsome.

The mayor, before the meeting, promised to veto any amendments to the relocation plan before this meeting even started. But we made our proposals anyway.

The mayor holds his pen thoughtfully.

He has a drink of water every 48 seconds.

He is mildly startled to see that I am smiling at him.

He knows that I am writing about him.

He is used to it by now.

Or pretends he is.