Interview

Sitting in a cloak of black conservatism: I feel my hands, oily on the desk like shortening in slate gray cookie pans, the speedway inside forcing the absence of reabsorption, And my thoughts, so flippant to implore if a man with a chartreuse neck tie can see the long wet streaks across the cherry plane. He speaks, a sequence of interrogatives common to the bored walls of serious conference, evoking tone inflection in the pattern of polite. Darest I mention truth? I am your whore; infect me with smug integrity, smack me with false prophet leadership, just leave some crisp bills on the nightstand, sugar. Yet my voice models his wavelength, relaying back the catchy tired language of one hit wonders; eyes brighten, hands extend from the man who owns a chartreuse tie. Sigh. Still, complacency awards a loaf of Wonder bread, and a two bedroom lower.