A Careerist in Wonderbra,
everywhere She looked hung
Her sparkling, floating fruits.
Coolly inclined, yet fleet in coltish
air—no union shop.
Her ruby throne floats aloft
the nascent void. Below,
a tribe of naked, scrappy, sweating
cherubs inscribes Her word,
remands to forge a fusty pair
of virgin, sapphire tablets.
No, not a day for thongs—
Day Five coming fast,
She wants to look Her best. She pokes
around a lingerie chest,
lifts a pale-yellow chiffon
pair of Carine Gilsón
knickers up to newly blinding
light, remarks the pair,
and runs a finger all around
the slinky satin hem.
Smooth, bare, left leg first,
then braced by solid throne,
slides the other apiece chiffon;
snaps the seamless top
around an immaculate, untrammeled
waist. Guess no covert
eyes around to glance; She’d squash
them verso down to tart,
to something resembling smoky quartz.
Beat was good now;
humming along, She dons a perfect
printed gingham frock,
flicks swarms of fishy things
about, sends fowls off
to chance a pallid, neutral air.
But, oh god, must She now
go on to Man, or may She punt?
