One of the million
of Venus has been oiled onto
a canvas and hung above a scene
of everyday executive stress.
From there she sets out her own
flirtatious agenda, drawing
drifting attention away from
the conversational combat
and power-speak. In her eyes
a sparkle of spangling tease,
which temptingly cuts through
those Rapunzil-tresses that double
as modesty's flimsy veil. Thus
she secures her assets from
the covetous glances of those
that might otherwise strip her down
to sell on for corporate, or
they're no more than gesticulating fidgets -
playing at posture - in a third
and superfluous dimension.
Inspecting them, she evaluates
every strategic development
in directorial attire,
as they work the week through
closets, in a fiesta of the finest
Italian cloth and florescent linings
whose gaudy satin clashes,
with the delicate hue of the cotton chemise
and each knotted rainbow of silk.
If you've any comments on
this poem, Graeme Green would be pleased to hear from you.