Corporate Whore
She wants a career
Damn you
Not attention for her legs
Her bum
Or
Breasts
Oh
These assets she’d trade away
At least she may say
For a woozy roll
In the corporate hay
Not on her knees behind
The photocopier
She wants that corner office
It sticks in her mind
The one with the view
Of her double computer screens
As she works later than you
“I Just Get on Better with Guys!”
She’s had a lot of
‘Guy friends’
Her loose lips tell you
And that all-too-throaty laugh?
A party girl
No doubt in “days past”
Now try as she might
Can’t help
But start a fight
You see
She’s got to have
That thrill
Like riding without the pill
Absence of Him
Her father wasn’t there
Or maybe he was
Hovering in the air.
She speaks of him
When she fancies
On a whim
Is he alive or dead?
Perhaps the monster
Beneath her bed
You’ll never be sure
Nor can you help
As there is no cure
That most important man
Her life burned up
When he ran
The Would-Be Furry
Dog Mom
Cat Mom
Anything but real
Mom
Perhaps the horses stole her heart?
Their gentle danger
Captivating her childish mind
So now you meet her in the street
Something about her not quite clear
A sense of self
Displaced
Into the animal nearest, does she adore
Leaves you standing there
Your place confirmed
Beneath the beast
Arthur Powell resides somewhere in CONUS and spends his time attempting to write poetry, trying to shoot better, and preparing for civilization’s collapse. He runs a poetry journal called Atop the Cliffs, which is always open for submissions, and can also be found wasting breath on Twitter. He likes cheap lager and good Scotch, but not at the same time.
