Reflection

She's at it again-

head hung over columns of numbers

smartly dressed with the hint

of a halo, the light shimmering

overhead. All around files,

carefully kept, her fingers

nibbled down to the raw edge.

Portraits to the side

with smiling faces, cheery

eyes full of anticipation and plenty.

A box in the corner,

marked private, red inked papers

spill and tumble across an

immaculate veined floor,

lifted by a diligent breeze

to circle her head.

The silent swarm dances

like manic ballerinas

drunk with too many sugar plums.

Thin icing coats the tongue,

wagging above the trough

to lap through red

licorice ropes, gummy

liquid IV drip drops.

Now, there she is.