asks what I am wearing
how many servings of pie I have had
tells me how my hair should fall down my face

Tomorrow at work I will

wear a nylon skirt and
black slip ons

I will sit at my desk
type for him
take direction, listen silently to his phone calls
speak of little.

For weeks he will ignore me,
treat me like nothing (but his secretary)

Then on a whim he will

summons me to his office
bend me on his desk and
welt the back of my legs,
destroy my grey silk blouse
with his built up nervous tension

He inflicts pain that touches
the scars of what has been

Taunting
                        the pleasure
                                               he knows
                                                                I want