Travails Of A Money Collector Poem by saranyan bee

I go to see the big Chief
of a big ticket company
with big debts
and big ticket lenders.

It is by appointment
he is held up in meetings, his secretary says;
after some time spent on mute
to be at 11 am to be precise, she whispers.

I am not allowed to park the car
in the posh building where he sits,
so I leave it on by-lane far away
with “No Parking” sign written red on blue.

He sits in the sixteenth floor,
the queue at the elevator is long
every floor has a passenger getting off,
“I hate to be late”, I swear.

At 11 am sharp I am ushered in
by the girl, the girl I spoke to, pretty
and who keeps cooing to somebody on phone
between the cluttering of the keyboard and telephone lines.

Her body odor, as she lets me in,
reminds me of someone
I knew in the campus
where I did my grad – philosophy.

The guy is buried in his monitor
typing something feverish
as if he is some news reporter
trying to catch the print of late edition.

His smile is on and keeps telling me
“One minute please! ”
every minute,
and smiles better each time he says that.

The room has mild, tasteful décor,
artifacts, hangings, exclusive Gods,
moderate temperature
and the smell of a tamed deodorant.

Behind him sprawling uptown
- tall buildings, green parks,
the vast sea with three long ships
and seven trawlers show up.

It looks like he is floating in the air
behind the large desk
on which nothing else but a pen stand
stands. No papers.

And the logo of his sinking company
and photo of his wife with bobbed hair
and daughter with a bit of cleavage
cuddling her little poodle.

As I wait, I spend
time replacing the wife’s face
with the face of the girl
cooing in the ante-room.

When I got a feeling
He is writing an epic, not a snippet
I walk to the big manly glass pane
behind him which show-case the city.

His smile vanish
as I tap the glass with my knuckles
more like to measure the gauge
they use for such purpose.

The huge brass pot
with blue, red and gold
enamel in-lays
would be fine, my eyes suggest.

I don’t push him out
because the wait for the lift-car would be long,
and I have the queer feeling
my car might have been toed away by the enforcement

and I see at the pavement
sixteen floors below,
the sweeper woman
breast-feeding her child.

also because he pays the money.


Saranyan BV © August 2011