barbara ann smith

A Climb To The Brass

I can see as far as the first landing.
Here, there are heel marks and broken
tiles. The steps spiral above me,
littered with broken agreements,
lost pay raises, and smashed egos
of middle-management fraility.

I push ahead, an employee bumps
me to the rear, move forth and regress,
like a baby takes its first step.
My mind's taxed and my body's tired.
I scale the heights, one at a time,
knocks and punches in every motion.
John bumps me as he passes saying,
"The apple polisher gets the trophy."
I want to gag and spit!

I escalate, I reach the landing.
The marble floor is glossy, as I thought.
The scent of leather and Aramis
drifts down from the near summit.
Above, I see the brass in plush offices
wear brand-name suits and shoes;
certain employees get trips
to Hawaii and new Corvettes
but a commodity report keeps me stumped.
I grit my teeth and don't yell,

"Give me that damnable parking permit
and the crown I earned years ago."