Mothers clad in Coach leather are swarmed in litigation. I am the secretary. I rub their case files generating heat to release perfume. I fill their shoes with the lift of hot air. I burn their bridges on their lunch breaks faking full schedules. I dabble in the art of lobby stall. I am the slow trickle filter on the tap of rushing divorce force. I dine on the marriage corpse. At my desk I generate days of auto pollution spat out from the scorched patience of fenced fems on repeat lobby attendance. Motoring in the grid - a pressurized wavy-lined road roast. The lid whistle screams in a chorus of horns. Their asses red and flustered from a regimen of cush upholstered smothering. Their elastic bras bulge in a 12-hour life grip as the stitched metal fingers chip enamel from lingerie hoops. A serum of skin salt/herbal lotion spackles the strangled wheel at ten and two o'clock; pumps pumping breaks in a repetitive rock. I am the fulcrum where client and counsel meet. I shift leverage to teetering lawyer leaches that feed me with loyalty checks from the tipped scales of their spouse-dishonered hosts. I burn them all on the phone with empathetic friends in similar shitty lives. We wade daily through the hot grid to formalize these hustles.