Grey flannel suit and horn-rimmed specs by day,
Sauntering through the labyrinth of polished marble:
Leopard skin coat by night
Torn stockings and cloche pulled tight
Slithering through the back alleys of the seedy metropolis.
In daylight, her mentor, in his Italian tailored suit, reeks of opium,
Throws pencils and shoes
At his neurotic accountant on Mahogany Row
Who drinks heavily at lunch every day to cope with his embezzling town car client
Who seduces a naïve young typist into a rendezvous in old gated and broken down elevator cars,
Taking advantage of the aspirations
Of a sacrificial nymph who
Dreams of gems and furs beyond her pay grade or abilities.
Embarrassed and solitary,
She drops tears in the flask of bootleg hooch that regularly hides in her bloomers,
And guzzles what’s left of her dignity in the back filing room
On days when Mr. Corner Office has locked door meetings
With the plump advertising boys,
Who eat shrimp stuffed between their knuckles
And spill cocktail sauce on their zoot suits.
These are the same sleek-tongued admen who smirk
At the effeminate window dresser who clumsily fondles mannequins in plain view of the streetcars and the local urchins,
The same hypocritical mashers who look admiringly at that young display artist when nobody else is watching.
Everything goes here, but murder,
And that’s only if a stock boy gets caught stabbing a customer on the grand stairwell.
The Gal Friday in the grey flannel suit and horn-rimmed specs
Keeps her company’s secrets,
Sees it all every work day,
Goes home to change into her masque and the leopard skin coat,
Relieved that she knows the password
At the speakeasy window,
A raucous confessional that cleanses her soul.
