Mothers clad in Coach leather    are swarmed in litigation.   I am the secretary.    I rub their case files    generating heat to release perfume.    I fill their shoes with the lift of hot air.    I burn their bridges on their lunch breaks    faking full schedules.    I dabble in the art of lobby stall.    I am the slow trickle filter   on the tap of rushing divorce force.    I dine on the marriage corpse.    At my desk I generate days of auto pollution    spat out from the scorched patience of fenced fems    on repeat lobby attendance.    Motoring in the grid -   a pressurized wavy-lined road roast.    The lid whistle screams in a chorus of horns.    Their asses red and flustered    from a regimen of cush upholstered smothering.    Their elastic bras bulge in a 12-hour life    grip as the stitched metal fingers    chip enamel from lingerie hoops.    A serum of skin salt/herbal lotion    spackles the strangled wheel    at ten and two o'clock;    pumps pumping breaks in a repetitive rock.    I am the fulcrum where client and counsel meet.   I shift leverage to teetering lawyer leaches that feed me    with loyalty checks from the tipped scales   of their spouse-dishonered hosts.    I burn them all on the phone    with empathetic friends in similar shitty lives.    We wade daily through the hot grid   to formalize these hustles.