“Something has to be done. That much is certain.”
They stand there, rigid and expressionless
Like stick figures scratched out with magic marker
On a photograph—they don’t belong there.
They’re out of time, out of their element,
Out of luck. “At least we could have tried something,”
One murmurs as the boss approaches them.
It’s a moot point; barring a miracle,
This failure will be swept under the rug
And never mentioned again. It’s just business.
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