Quorum of the Damned

The committee convened in the old municipal gym,

beneath banners celebrating past triumphs

like Successfully Renaming the Recycling Program

and Agreeing to Hold Fewer Meetings.

A fog machine—that no one would admit to bringing—

pumped out a sense of occasion.

The committee reached a consensus.

The first agenda item concerned the mysterious envelope

slid under the door, labeled Open Only If You Dare.

Half the members voted to dare,

half voted to pretend daring had already occurred,

and one member insisted the envelope was a metaphor

for the envelope inside us all.

After a brief interpretive dance meant to clarify nothing,

The committee reached a consensus.

By mid-afternoon, the coffee had unionized.

The chairs demanded lumbar rights.

A flock of geese entered the building

and claimed quorum by honking in perfect parliamentary procedure.

Someone proposed electing the geese as interim leadership;

arguing they displayed more discipline

than anyone with a badge and a lanyard.

The motion passed by a landslide of confusion.

Under avian supervision,

The committee reached a consensus.

At dusk, the geese resigned en masse,

citing “irreconcilable differences with human folly.”

The lights flickered, the fog machine sputtered,

and the envelope—still unopened—began to hum ominously.

The remaining members, trembling with the clarity

that only total bewilderment can provide,

voted unanimously to adjourn forever

and declare the entire day a success-

in the same way a fire declares itself warm.

In the final minutes, with a tone

that suggested cosmic resignation,

The committee reached a consensus.