Secretaries from Hell

April 26, 1995|By Rikki Santer

We are typing, typing, typing,

smuggling our words onto the backs

of your furthermores and enclosed-you-will-finds.

We draw fangs

on the happy faces

of your Post-it notes,

stir powdered laxatives

into your coffee creamers,

hurl executive bathroom keys

through the air vents of your waiting rooms.

We will blame visiting children.

Some of us drive black

'69 VW vans and like

to curb our rusted fenders

into your corporate parking spaces.

We wear sunglasses at our desks,

make secret lists

of Naugahyde jokes,

and snicker

at all the matching teak veneer

while lodging

mint toothpicks

into their pressboard spines.

We know where everything is.

We have lunch beers

greasy hamburgers

at Bruno's Rainbow Tavern.

At pinball machines we dangle

cigarettes from our rapid fire lips.

We read Kafka in dark booths

or sit with the other gals and talk about

YOU.

We listen to Coltrane tapes

through our dictaphones

while balancing your ledgers.

We alphabetize third world dictators

into your Rolodexes.

We nickname you

boss a nova.

We perfect photocopied images

of our hangnails, butts and bunions

then send them to your clients in their S-A-S-E's.

We submit your home addresses

to occult mailing houses.

We add categories

to your pink While-You-Were-Out messages:

--Sounded Canine

--Missing Brain Matter

--Out to Get You, Too.

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