Summoned To The Top Floor* Poem by Ian Bowen

Dripping with the jewels
cut and polished by the clever hands
of men with one plastic eye,
she keeps her knees together
as she swings out
through the highly polished
door of the Ferrari.

A man in livery and top hat
takes her keys
and passes the keys
to a one minute driver,
who parks between
two silver clouds.

In the elevator, she checks
in a small mirror
(that lives in her Gucci bag)
for any blemish
that would render her less
than total perfection.

The penthouse bell dings,
and as the door slides open
she catches a conversation
about camel racing
and oil wells.