Brand Room, 9am

The sticky notes begin to molt,
a dry-tip marker ghosts a chart;
we “leverage trust,” reduce default,
while someone warms a day-old tart.

The Value Ladder hums, “be soothed”;
the clicker rules the slide parade.
We promise friction—keep it smooth,
and half-believe the pact we made.

A coffee ring makes Venns that kiss,
two circles meet, then drift apart;
the deck says “sacred? not this,”
then spares its favourite sacred part.

We “can-you-just” a week of work;
scope nods and hides behind a scarf.
The budget whispers in the dark;
the timeline gives a frightened laugh.

Outside the lift complains in C;
the jacaranda edits streets.
Inside we chase a tidy “we,”
and call it north when north retreats.

Then one small spray of blossom lands—
a story of a client’s dad.
The jargon loosens both its hands;
we draw a line that might hold glad.