Mother Jones: March/April

Something 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.

~