Autumn in an Envelope
My boss gave me autumn in a home-made envelope,
sour yellow and sellotaped.
Its pallor spread to my cheeks.
“Was it my telephone manner?” I enquired.
She said nothing, but stood
scratching her back against the photocopier,
her breath a hot slug of paprika.
HR shrugged, and printed off a denial.
When I opened the envelope, November knifed me
with a stiff north-easterly.
A red maple leaf spread from my sternum.
I dropped to the floor, rotting.
My boss walked over me in her wide-fit stilettos,
waxy-faced, like a butternut squash.
“The shoes,” she hissed. “you wore the wrong shoes,”
and she walked out into the April sky, wheezing.
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Nina Parmenter
would be pleased to hear them.