Sirens of the Secretarial Coven

Sirens of the Secretarial Coven  
 
My non-traditional for men job quest
Lands me in the typist’s oasis  
Of the secretarial pool of Portland, Maine
I enter the perfumed office parlor
Of the skirted realm
Whose rose-scented atmosphere
Holds hope for the dream job
Of female cohorts
For a young man with great expectations
In the pursuit of happiness
To be found among blouses
Where I am to be administered the typing test
By an instructress introduced by her sister in ink as:
“Don’t worry John, she won’t bite.
Does the nail polish and lipstick population
make you shy?”
“I guess I am just the bashful type.”
“Jen gives great backrubs to ease that tension.  
Would you like one?”
“That sounds lovely. My back is in knots.”
“She will oblige. But first,  
were you an English major?”
“How did you know?”
“We get that clientele all the time.  
Is your grammar good?  
You might like to be an editor.
Occasionally we have openings  
as editors in training
with the local newspaper.  
Since most of our college grads skip town  
they are often desperate.
We don’t have any openings at the moment.
But one could happen at any time.”
My clothes scented by the Eau de Parfum  
of Jen, the office masseuse,
I set off with a new liveliness in my gait,
having been perfumed by the feminine fragrance
of a rare and aromatic incense
whose scent is that of jasmine
on a cool Ganges night in Varanasi.