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 of 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

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 s**tty lives

We wade daily through the hot grid

To formalize these hustles