Orrin Schwab imagines a late-night meeting on the docks where representatives gather to decide the city's future, and what they actually do is divide it up. The list of who gets counted keeps growing: doormen's tenants, diplomats, taxi drivers, lawyers, the homeless, prisoners, the mafia, dancers, artists, secretaries, heiresses. Rich and poor, legal and criminal, all end up in the same discussion. The city itself is "nearly broke," with broken streets and dirty buildings, yet everyone still wants a share.
The speaker doesn't shout or take sides. The tone is flat and observant, almost like a reporter reading out a census, and the long, breathless lists make the scene feel crowded and a little absurd. Under that calm there is a weary irony. Each person thinks they want only "a tiny part," but the last lines say that everyone wants more than they will ever get. The mood is wry, tired, and quietly sad about a city pulled apart by its own appetites.