In a room draped in royal blue
a consultant advises applying
toxic mushrooms to problems
office politics can’t solve.
The room shimmers like tissue.
I’m planning a dinner party
for you and your feral husband.
After brandy and thick cigars
I’ll propose you elope with me
to the nearest rain forest, leaving
your husband shuffling papers
in his dusty office where stainless
steel instruments glower and books
too thick to grip with his tiny hands
gloat with insufferable knowledge.
This plan will enrage him, of course.
Exposing his aspirin-sized teeth
he’ll demand an apology;
but I’ll stare until the toxic
mushrooms in his salad attack
his liver and he staggers with pain.
We’ll rush him to the hospital
and assure him of survival,
then taxi to the airport and lose
ourselves together in the world.
What a daydream. The consultant
in the room draped in royal blue
hasn’t mentioned toxic mushrooms,
but flashing his MBA smile
he offers pie charts related
to better use of personnel
to cope with a grim economy.
I made up the rest to impress you,
and would like to share it all
over cups of Earl Grey tea;
but as the consultant’s lecture ends
your blue gaze looks too bottomless
to lure all the way to the tropics,
so I won’t even say hello.