secretary (draft)

it is all yellow-green lighting
that blinks and sparks
mimicking heels, the tip tap tip tap
a seizure waiting to happen
illuminating 50's pencil skirts
and hips when women had hips
Blips and slips, I balance precariously
in heels that blister and pop
I raise my chin, I channel
Katherine and His Girl Friday
Only this fella
has more recently seen another film
prior to searching for a Secretary.

I follow the cheap
pantsuit to his office
I am wearing the one white blouse
button down I own
I hold my lungs, every breath
threatens indecency
expansive breasts swollen
on they're monthly schedule
the trenton-bound 5:45 pm
pressing against fabric
suburban lusts and crust
on the faux leather seats

please, miss, have a seat.

it is a tracking shot,
the camera follows
almost up my dress
but it's not me it's
some bondage model
a Veronica Lake- wannabe
puke green filing cabinets
twisting, labyrinthine corridor
I suspect nothing.

film noir, no accordion in sight
tarrantino funny, then splatter
something's the matter
he fingers my resume, eyes my lips
I get the feeling this man
the man behind the desk yellow pit stains
dollar store tie and paper clip to
his pucker, contorted lip
I get the feeling this man
wants me not as an assistant
but as a lady, a tramp, then
tossed out, broken lamp
begging for food stamps
lapping up the gutter-spill
he wants me akimbo, a bimbo
but he asks about dic-
tation speeds and typing tests

later on the way back to bensonhurst
the train teeters on the yellow line
I realize that the advertisement
was all a ploy for a perverted man
who owned too many filing cabinets
and not enough honestly-bared breasts

two days later he calls
the job has been filled
but would I ever consider
letting him place a camera
under the rim of my toilet seat
or perhaps leave one on
while getting undressed before bed?

I am twenty-three
Lips painted Betty Page red
Reclining on rented bed
Russian on the street, winter falling
Outside it is a blizzard
the train can't move in the sky
It is Siberia, it is Chernobyl
I burn my degree, I vomit my pedigree
I tongue my blood line
Consider my options
And tell him maybe next year
If all else fails
I'll let this rich man
watch me shit.