A Sacred Cow in the Office

What strange laws there are now, that would encourage
A larder at her desk, where she just fits.
Junk food awaits the moment when she’ll forage,
To add more to those grotesque layers. It’s
The carbs and starch that wedge her, she admits,
And knows within that she’s a giant mess.
Though under flab and heavy strides, there sits
A lady, lithe, a fine adventuress
Screaming to get out, sway in a red dress,
Make mad love, sing songs under starry skies,
Forget the cheesey snacks and soda; stress
Herself in midnight clubs with handsome guys.

Political correctness locks her there—
An honored victim, glued upon her chair.

© Sally Cook

"A Sacred Cow in the Office" previously appeared in The New Formalist.