I Am The Secretary

Mothers clad in Coach leather

are swarmed in litigation.

I am the secretary.

I rub their case files

generating heat to release perfume.

I fill their shoes with the lift of hot air.

I burn their bridges on their lunch breaks

faking full schedules.

I dabble in the art of lobby stall.

I am the slow trickle filter

on the tap of rushing divorce force.

I dine on the marriage corpse.

At my desk I generate

days of auto pollution spat out from the scorched patience

f fenced fems on repeat lobby attendance.

Motoring in the grid - a pressurized wavy-lined road roast.

The lid whistle screams in a chorus of horns.

Their asses red and flustered

from a regimen of cush upholstered smothering.

Their elastic bras bulge

in a 12-hour life grip

as the stitched metal fingers chip enamel

from lingerie hoops.

A serum of skin salt/herbal lotion

spackles the strangled wheel at ten and two o'clock;

pumps pumping breaks in a repetitive rock.

I am the fulcrum where client and counsel meet.

I shift leverage to teetering lawyer leaches

that feed me with loyalty checks

from the tipped scales of their spouse-dishonered hosts.

I burn them all on the phone with empathetic friends

in similar shitty lives.

We wade daily through the hot grid

to formalize these hustles.