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.