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?