It sits there
an unlikely temple,
wearing an air of stale neglect.
Cracked concrete leads to peeling paint,
grey pebble dash and
grilles at the window:
a local committee decision,
to stop anyone running off
with the tea urn.

Inside, the musty smell of old curtains
is at curious odds with the
clumsy, poster painted pictures
embellished with egg boxes and dried pasta.
Kayleigh, aged four
seems to have been a particularly dab hand
with the pvc.

Today, the serving hatch is covered
in brightly coloured cartons,
the packaging more enticing than the contents.
Leaflets abound
and there, in the centre of the room
poised in perfect balance,
it waits
for those glory moments of
show and tell,
shame or shine.

Sandra is on the desk this week,
whilst Maureen presides over
the nitty gritty.
“Oh well done, that’s two lbs”
she trills,
followed by:
“Well, it was your birthday,
best put it behind you.”
Very apt.

The bluebottle on the windowsill
does not seem impressed,
as we all put our hands together
for Doreen,
he’s seen it all before.
“Now then ladies,
can someone help with the chairs?”
And that is it,
for another week.