Most mornings I find myself
staring at the shower floor.
  
              Tell me why

I cry at that Backstreet Boys reference.

He strides up to my desk, beaming
like I'm the winning lotto
ticket he wants to rub off in his truck--
"Well, aren't you as cute as a button."

Puke creeps up my throat while
his creased eyes clearly try to
conjure the image of my naked
**** I thought I cleverly disguised
by a collared grandma blouse.
"Is there anything else I can help you with, sir?"

Heart racing from the effort to keep
my mouth shut and my cheeks
pale, I see other people
whisper, widen their eyes
at his use of "cutie" and "dearest"
while he winks repeatedly--
apparently a Morse code for
I'd-do-you-baby.

I practically feel the slime
slipping down my outsides,
but I give him a smile.
-because I have to-