They'Re Honking At A Woman [woman Worker’s Poem]
They’re honking at a woman in blue tights,
honking at the rare petals
of her long braid
and the coat collar she pulls
to her lips.
They’re honking at her tattoo of an angel,
her tattoo of a scorpion,
at the faceless doll they imagine
jerking at their zippers.
They are honking at a waitress in blue tights,
at her hand that she burned
on a plate, and the other hand musty
from picking up tips.
They are honking at her bracelets,
her intimate fur,
her violets in white paper
broken by rain—
honking at her eyes of weak lust,
the astringent weight and morning-shift-dread
that keeps her walking slow.
And they’re honking at the towels
they wipe themselves with,
the stinking vegetable tins
they eat from, the jobs
that have failed them.
They’re honking louder
at a woman in blue tights,
louder at the delicate fringe
of a handkerchief crushed inside her pocket,
louder at the wince
she will not show them.