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High Table

The senior fellow’s semi-shaven Adam’s apple
shifty on the frayed collar of his check shirt.

Massaging gold,
thumb and index finger
soothe his signet ring.
An osculation. A frig. On his little finger.

Impatient. He pushes back his cuff,
consults the scratched three-quarter face.
And catches the butler’s professionally placid eye.
‘We can’t wait any longer for the chaplain.’

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