January 23, 2025The Grass Ceiling
At his wildest Terry never dreamed
the journey from the Andes
to the corner window office
at Broadstone Bank outside Albany
was going to take so long,
the board’s closed-mindedness
looming like a chain of peaks
even as he kicked and spat
his way past the competition—
coddled milquetoast MBAs
with power ties and weak morals—
Broadstone’s balance sheets
rocketed up like a fuzzy tail,
all thanks to Terry’s wizardry
with risk management, his secret
weapons the swiveling ears
plucking whispers of futures
from the susurrus of stock tips,
every year bonuses doubled,
his supervisors shook their heads
in disbelief, and every year
Terry could hear the dry rattle
of the grass ceiling where his hopes
for promotion were dashed,
You’re too young, Terry,
Still missing some vital experience,
meanwhile Millie the bank manager’s
daughter shrieked in the break room
when her promotion was announced,
Terry’s ears fluttering sharply away.
Soon his studio overlooking the bend
in the Hudson started smelling like a stall,
Terry lost weight, developed mange,
worked himself wild with worry,
at all hours the halls of Broadstone
clacked with the beat of his two toes,
profits soared, and finally, finally!
Terry got the call: Next week,
dress well, you deserve it.
Down the street to the tailor
Terry waggled for a charcoal two-piece,
the new Amex, heavy with status,
rapping metallic against his toenails,
a black blade to slice through grass.
Until he paraded himself into
the boss’s office, Millie there, too,
all of them, faces aghast, eyes wide.
Is that mohair? somebody asked.
Terry paused, briefcase in hoof,
fought down the urge to spit,
I’m not an Angora goat, he said,
feeling the unseen grass above him,
still rough, dry, and harsh, no matter
his margins the board would only
notice his furry flanks, his dark eyes,
his ears pivoting toward the future.
from Ekphrastic Challenge