I see it this way:
you flared up, got heated, boiled over.
I tried to dampen, douse it, cool it.
Your manager’s anger simply fuelled it.
He erupted like Krakatoa.
I was ice floe, hoar frost,
glacier; pure refrigeration.
He was Fahrenheit,
I was Kelvin.
You were molten throughout
the palaver; hot as a solar corona.
I was cat-calm, composed, serene,
while you vented your spleen.
You fumed, flamed, blazed,
like you’d swallowed hot lead,
a crimson mist engulfed your head.
I confirm that the card
I showed was a red.