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.
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