Tabled, as always

They all took their seats round the table,
It had no head, but all knew where Power sat.
Summoned in haste by Ideology itself,
for the matter was pressing and oddly stressing.

Capitalism sat back—legs crossed, arm draped,
already reclined like comfort was inherited.
Feminism adjusted her seat,
raised it two inches—just enough to be noticed.
Consumerism fumbled with six filled bags,
Communism leaned forward, elbows on wood,
coat still damp from the long march.
Nationalism sat upright, rigid with defense.
Racism just didn't sit, but it occupied
a chair larger than the rest.
Humanism offered everyone a cushion
which everyone politely declined.

Ideology tapped the table and said-
'Pigeons poop on male pedestals"
"Let's solve and share perspectives"
Capitalism said, “Install coin-operated bird shields".
Feminism said, “Maybe fewer men on pedestals.”
Consumerism said, “Limited-edition umbrellas—for statues.”
Communism said, “Remove the pedestals.”
Nationalism said, “Protect the patriots—build taller ones"
Humanism said, “Teach pigeons to aim elsewhere.”
Racism said, “Maybe the pigeons just know who built the pedestal.”

Above them, the glass ceiling had cracked,
fractured not by revolution, but by repetition
Of the voices that didn't wait for their turn.
Each outburst was a splinter; each ego was a hammer.

Ideology tapped once again, room fell still
all eyes turned to the chair of Power.
Something landed on it,
They all looked up
and saw a pigeon.

And they let the stain settle.