Glass Ceiling

Almost, it seemed, I smelled

the patch of withered grass, the green of stale,

imbued with glutinous spit, now dried;

as integral a part of his scuffed leather shoe soles

as orange bug-splatters on a windshield.

My nostrils curled. He shifted

so his right shoe angled on the glass topped desk

and the left pointed, like a sword, at …