Examination Room Poem by Ronnie Smith

The students crack
their noisy knuckles
in the laboratory of excellence,
drowning out the hoo haa
of the hormonal rowdies
in the corridor's perfect acustic.

A kilometer to the north
the Ramada logo flares
in the warming sun,
given artistic perspective
by rippling Mitsubishi banners
wafting on their poles.

Two kilometers to the east
Stalin's gift to the people of Romania
stoically perseveres,
quietly emitting discomfort
in its revolutionary rebirth as
the House of the Free Press.

In the lushness
of the adjoining jungle,
earmarked for profit,
tax evasion and laundering,
the claxon of a lone pheasant
demands something more.

In this room,
at this moment,
ambitions are being realised,
future paths cleared
and bottom lines written.
There is no more going back.