Executive with a Firework Mouth

The room is polite as a boardroom.
He bites a cherry bomb,
lacquer running to the white cuffs like signatures gone wrong.
His hair, a red comet, scribbles heat into the air.
Sunglasses keep midnight where his eyes should be.
He grins on hinges, a door no exit fits.
The fuse licks his tongue.
He swallows the spark as if it were policy.
Droplets draft a memo in arterial cursive.