The businessman sawed through the uterus
With sharpened ballpoints and NASDAQ peaks.
Swaddled in 90-degree shoulder pads,
He is handspun from bespoke mohair and Chanel Bleu.
His mouth is red and wet with ambition,
Pressed to dampened phone receivers and cognac-dipped cigars.
His lips are set at a jagged uptrend atop
Soft jaw, proudly bisected by a sandpapered clef,
And his salted hairline gleams slickly in meticulous pompadour.
Between Midas-goldened fingertips
Dangles his tar-enveloped refuge,
Drawn to meet the topaz enamel that brackets sharp tongue,
Cheeky and stained with
Robust espresso and Franklin vignettes.
He is bourbon-jolly and swollen,
A dull cufflink-puncture from deflation,
And his head lolls with the heavy bloat of hot air,
Woozily perched atop grizzled folds of neck.
He is confined solely by a single thread-strained mother-of-pearl button
And he oozes through puckered seams,
A thick, viscous sludge.
Come five o’clock in the evening,
Glistening mucus gurgles behind each homebound step,
Leaching onto every footfall
Until a sticky finger may freely peel off his bulging exoskeleton
And release him to dissolve,
A wet mass spilling across the threshold.
He is hot bile seeping into the floorboards,
The splintered grain, the Persain rug, the
picture-strewn mantlepiece, the Crayola-clad refrigerator, the
Sweet little womanly thing of plush capital filed between Italian linens,
Until he thrums in satiety.
The dawn greets an engorged acquisition
Folding himself pocket-square small once more:
Tuxedo-molded liquid currency.