Chuck's intern farted a little bit when she leaned forward. Just a little fart. A little dainty lady fart like she might let slip in church standing to sing a hymn, or sliding forward into the stir-ups at a gynecological exam.
Chuck pretended not to notice, but he had a hard time denying the burgeoning erection filling the plain but tight cotton panties he wore. He tried to focus on the paperwork before him, but his eyes were drawn repeatedly to the exciting words in the text: tax, mandate, penalty... the sinuous sumptuousness of redistribution.
Re-dis-tri-bu-tion. Five syllables. An entire first line of a haiku. A haiku he would write about her. Her and her little fart.