The Secret Group

a poem by Jan Oskar Hansen

She sat on the table I sat on a chairs,
she had rolled up her skirt
and I was kissing the soft flesh of her inner thighs.
A sudden disturbance outside
she pushed me away,
ran down into the street
where politicians with bags of shiny coins
threw them amongst people who were jubilant,
even more so when an orchestra came marching
playing joyous tunes.

Walked down to the basement
were men in silk suits sat around a conference table
discussing how to run the world
for the next five years,
but before I could make out their faces
someone switched off the light
and I could hear them scurrying out
and into their expensive cars.
When the light came back
on I found sheets of paper on the table,
but it was props as nothing was written down.

Back in the street
people were dejected
and silent taxes had gone up
and they had to return the shiny coins.
The sky was shadowy
and there was a sense of war in the air
which no one except the men in silk suits wanted
and I never kissed those thighs again.