The Suit

Here he sits:
The BusinessMan,
His suit of knife-sharp edges,
Each pinstripe a bullet.
The shard in his eye,
The straining buttons over belly
Attest to his success.

Sultan by his salary and
Imperious bellowing,
Dismissive hand flicks
Instruct his subordinates.
This arrogant rajah
Ruler of his tiny domain,
Who governs those in his shadow
Like an eclipse, not
Not like a seismic mass
Reposing undersea.

His chattels granted by HR
And wafted by payslips; until
One day his high-gliding eye
That soars over the foothills
To his Himalayas,
His eye witnesses a higher power
And the desk he flew with,
The spine-straining ego too,
Wrenched away.
His bulk plummets;
So in one word written
His bones lie among those
He dominated.

The almighty word,
Vainly excused by by its cohort
'Regret', and modestly attired
In black, unemboldened,
Yet still burned the paper,
Was 'Redundant'.