The ball-capped men, old men, sit motionless Arms folded in existential disapproval They read not, no, and neither do they toil1 Over boxes that light up and make noise
French impressionist lilies soften the walls Echoing with educational racket A cartoon shark counting the numbers off To a child embalmed in a plastic box
While his mee-maw looks to eternity Through a door that opens from the other side