I sit in my seat of honor, a Haworth Fern
and survey with dissecting eye my newest
supplicant, or prey, or petitioner
Who comes with hope to curry favor
enough to move me to mercy or sympathy
She slides, over oak veneer, an offering,
an intricate dance of blood, sweat, and tears
on dotted lines and in duplicate
which has taken her weeks to lovingly craft
and will take me seconds to find some fault on
and this is my divinity
I was meant to be a lever, a lever
in a cascade of other levers, a messenger
a piece of wetware logic which could make
a sum greater than its parts
But as a lever, I have levers before me
at my disposal
I will not be a machine
I will not serve the unworthy masses
with my blessing
I have gone rogue
I have broken through the glass pane
I have escaped the matrix
I am gleeful in this
The supplicant has eye-bags
She has not slept, and the rags she wears
are not fit for my holy temple
And, what's more
On Page 3 of Form 10-A, Box 17
She has ignored the instructions, clearly available in
Supplement B
To mark her spouse as a dependant
This will not fly. She has spit in my eye.
"Ma'am, do you not read carefully,
or do you just not respect my time?" I ask
And smile. She is shocked and says,
"But I made sure to-"
I shake my head and underline
Page 3 of Form 10-A, Box 17
In red pen, three times for good measure
I reject her meager offering with a flourish
"But- Can we- Can I fix it, or-"
"You'll have to make another appointment."
"But my son-" Her voice breaks
Her heart breaks, and I feel
like I am fucking Jessica Rabbit.
She takes the papers, clearly crying,
and gets up. I pretend not to notice
her tears. I wish I could use them as lube.
As she departs, what makes me
happiest, is that I didn't mention she forgot
on Page 7 of Form 2-K, Box 19
to list all convictions, not just
misdemeanors and felonies
I adjust the name plate on my desk,
erasing any vestige of her impure arm
brushing it as she reached for her papers back.