Written as if it were a sign hung on a municipal wall, this poem is a dry, sharp joke about how local government handles public anger. The opening twist on Dante's famous warning about abandoning hope sets the tone: the building is sound-proofed, and citizens may complain as much as they like, so long as their words are "bland as water" and promise jobs and growth. The repeated "drip" makes the officials' favorite buzzwords sound like a leaky tap, tedious and endless.
The speaker's attitude is sardonic, but the ending softens it. Citizens line up at the Town Hall meeting to state their names for "the record," which the poem calls a stagnant pool that reflects everything except their weariness and anger. Then comes the surprising image of hands rising like flowers toward the sun, and the "touching gratitude" of being allowed to speak. The mood shifts from mockery to something sadder: the system takes very little, and people are thankful for even that.