The most I was like my mother was that night standing at the bus stop, when that man, that man with dark skin and the grin with two front teeth missing, so black and white he made me want to play the piano; he yelled from down the street

“Oooh, pretty lady!”

and I didn’t think he was talking to me, it had been a sweaty day and my shoulders were burned, I didn’t think he was talking to me, but I looked anyway and that man with the hip-to walk, that juiced-up swagger, he looked at me and I could see a scar on his eyebrow, that man sauntered up and said

“you afraid of me?”

and he struck a pose, sort of like Elvis crossed with a pouncing cat and somebody was having a party nearby with bass thumping, hands groping and I stood outside the bus stop with this guy who breathed out cigarette smoke and beer and this guy stepped forward

“hey lady, tonight you’ll find the fat cat ready to prowl”

this time his eyes moved down to my breast size

“You afraid of me?”

and I tell you, the moment I was most like my mother who long ago stood in a white dress near the train platform where she was confronted by two drunken men, the most I was like my mother who battled for speech as the train rushed on by, was when I told this guy

“No.”

08/22/2004

Posted on 08/22/2004
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