Department Clerk, Friend

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My friend
Who — from immemorial time —
Of lechery, leering and of cat-calling men complained,
Men, of all ages bearing various diversity,
Who would rub on her assets, hiss to her under their breath
What made her shudder deep down; or so she said.

Lean on her in the public transport,
Stare at her dreamily, till she turned around; asked “why?”.
Objectified her and drained her of half an hour’s sanity
— If it was an half an hour ride — Or, made her fume,
Stare back, but her discomfiture still (she tells me)
Titillated more, that lumpen will.

Made her paranoid young, added a stud and a star
To an already aloof spirit and personality
That wouldn’t trust the male eye and its ways
(Lest there would be prying between the line at the boobs,
Lest the well meaning glance would metamorphose to a gaze):
Keep a man on a mission at your manicured edge.

My friend — the Microcosm —
Sweet icon of Fate; There
To oblige the three-piece lechery of old, rumpled men
With roses at their coat pockets, power belching from their anus,
As they barter you half a star for a quick fall of those lashes curved
And the obligation of a caress, while the nation’s being served.

Those places where you resisted
The common swarthy sweat pit; his hissing calls,
Like torsos and decapitated carcasses
— In your fevered imagination’s eye —
They accumulate, all those that ever accosted you
Would have starved a night and a day to fuck you

Or, driven his weight — for a moment’s lust —
Into what like a sacristy to the world you hold.
Yes — you don’t say that to me, but I know —
That even what you guarded against — because you meant it good, serene —
Doesn’t matter anymore. Your regret is not what you’ve come to become;
It regrets more where you haven’t been.

With roses at their coat pocket, a state-of-the-art gloat
And you on one side, on the other an anecdote:
He walks the red carpet, which bleeds under his heel
And as on the flatscreen your downcast face is cast
I try to feel as you may feel. Then, you look up the camera
With a furtive glance and — self-conscious — back on the chair I reel.




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