Now, you see, her commute is a treacherous one.
Trapped inside from nine to seven,
she waits for distant windows to darken,
for her reflection to sharpen,
and paces down an endless stretch of gray.
Then she steps onto the street and walks, head up and eyes open.
Oh, she’d love to put earbuds in, but ears must be open, too.
She crosses the leaf-strewn road;
a rusted truck sits idly by.
Its driver, he watches her blouse shift
and waits for green.
She avoids eye contact
with the grey-bearded smoker by the curb, but he
follows her long legs north
and exhales slowly west.
She passes a basketball court, near swallowed in shadow.
Teenage eyes peer out
and trace her curves
with greedy stares.
She waits several moments
for a cab to notice she’s waiting.
Then she lifts her skirt hem
just an inch or two
and surprise! the next driver pulls over,
to offer (with a smirk)
She finally reaches her door
and finds a neighbor,
newspaper in hand,
poised to say ‘Good Evening!’
to the buttons at her chest.
She slams the door and
escapes those eyes,
those hungry eyes,
those eyes that see nothing
Don’t walk home alone
It’s not safe for women to be out at night
Hairy Leg Stockings: discourage potential perverts!
Cover up a little
Show ‘em some cleavage! (because otherwise you’ll never get a man)
She was asking for it
Men are dangerous, predatory, and I am their prey.
I’m supposed to seduce them
to fear them
to depend on them
(to cook for them!)
and somehow to always want them
after ten interminable hours in the office,
working toward a paycheck twenty-one percent smaller
than the man’s one cubicle over,
the hardest part of every day
is her commute home at seven.