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Spectare’s Inheritance
As a bird vaunting its territory, small, conditioned, Dr. Spectare rotates on his chair. Whistling. Swivels. Stops. First right then left he muscles black leathers on post-its and keypads and day-plan diagrams, annexing via town casuals his desk. Like a quick invasion. Poland. Territory, mine. Right? Group Finance, floor four, room eight. Empty today. One indigene only, one. Spectare, unseen by his self. True. Whistles over air- conditioned emptiness his own conditioned airs. Position mine, office of ease. Do as I please. Instinct its history, learnt, empty its ritual. Purr, lesson perfect, hum, dull conditions dominate an open plan. His unguarded world. His tearing map.
On guard!
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