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Click hereSomething about starch and press that
makes me want to untuck, to rustle you up,
to pillow muss that tea tree slick-back.
Lunch hour. Something about that power suit
makes me want to strip you down to knees,
leech your boardroom power as my own.
Not a bitch-crime really, we both know you
want the chance to lay low, to pass on the agenda,
loose the rein-strained knuckles and let go.
Even barefoot I grow the tower of stiletto,
Pressing on the sweetness I never make you pay
just pick up the power you drop to the floor
beside special occasion panties and polished
wingtips so light you can fly so heavy I can
stand, grounded. But it never lasts.
Showered and straight, already my charge
seeps like a double A in the utility drawer,
green eyes dart in a desperate scan for the next
source while your hour hand, running late,
injects cortisol directly into the vein.
~
Although, I didn't make the connection to Mother Jones magazine.
......this doesn't have a red H beside it tomorrow there is no justice. Poetry that makes one think is what saves this place from poetry that makes one cringe. Thank you for this, anna.
Tess
it bears more than one reread... especially like the final strophe
but
i am completely baffled by the title. perhaps you would be good enough to enlighten me? *confused face*
Bows down with gratitude for a real poem that saved me from rhyming couplets (that don't) before my brain turns entirely to mush