I Am The Secretary-Beep Beep

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. 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.