Libby

Libby stands, fag in hand, outside the door.

She is braced against the world, contemplative,

inhaling thoughts of cursors, date functions;

how best to format fields as out parameters;

how to optimize the queries, substring varchars,

not compromise the data's referential integrity.

She cuts the wind that's cutting her,

ruminating daggers of tortuous code.

Libby is the ice-maiden from Australia,

knows her stuff, doesn't suffer fools,

outputs PL/SQL packages like oven buns;

will slice and dice with scissor logic,

dissecting problems with envious ease.

She is the server queen, back-end diva;

her process algorithms twist and flow,

user-acceptance tested without a bug.

Will ask to clarify a point, then vouch

"you don't know shit!" Dominatrix of design.

Guardian of version control. Keener than wind

from Arctic seas that buffets the smokers -

those that gabble, those aloof like her,

intense with coding dry requirements

in icy isolation, exhaling options;

driven as laden clouds from Northern skies.

Libby takes a final drag then stubs,

with stiletto heels, her jokeless butts.

She quits the car-park's vacant lots,

and warms the lift with measured breath.

Queen of ice, who fronts our frozen office,

how I warm to see your Southern glow,

your hidden outback's cry of unbelief:

"O look! O look! - The snow! The snow!"