Think of the passive- 

             aggressive bay, your office, 

green waves of deprivation; 

             think of the stalls— 

longing scrawls; gentlemen-walls— 

​

keeping your creeping 

             at length in the violent hour. 

As it all starts to sour. 

             Forbid your staff 

to laugh, devour the massive 

​

overflow, Stilton 

             with a cracker moat. Your coat. 

There is so much to withhold 

             in like, in life, 

and you have been voluntold 

​

by your beard slash wife 

             to crash the discharge party 

for those who chose the package. 

             (Your type? Sporty. 

We have all seen the intern’s 

​

biceps and lightly 

             drawn bullet points. Just say cheese.) 

Failure is like an adverb: 

             how politely 

you wince at chauvinism, 

​

cheers. For years, you called 

             your assistant, Jim, Jizzum— 

to yourself. Think of the guests. 

             No one should guess: 

you compete with your blood tests.