Across the quiet, dingy pub you call
the waitress, lingering across her form,
then, passing judgment coldly look away.
She wears a pendant round her neck, it rests
between two ample *******. Her hair is blonde
and likely bleached. And as she turns to walk
towards the bar - you see her shoes are high.
Unsteady with her tray and fashion pumps
she stumbles, shows a ladder in her tights.
So when a bloke gives chase you’re not surprised
she caught his eye, you’re not surprised to see
him slap her thigh. She stumbles to the bar,
and tries to laugh it off, to hide her face,
her cheeks are red, so while he smirks to friends
and winks at her, she looks toward the floor.
Then smugly you remark, ‘I’m not surprised.
She asked for it. She’s showing too much skin.’
Your face serene, you stroke your crucifix,
‘no self respecting girl would dress like that,
she’ll have herself to blame if she gets *****’.
And in response, it swells against my teeth,
I try to bite my tongue, to hold it back,
But you have wound me far too tight for that.
‘How can you say she has herself to blame?
When she got dressed this morning did she ask
for this? And what of him is it his right
to put his hands on who and what he likes,
and you – you sit and smirk with your contempt
you blame her, though she didn’t give consent,
these notions you perpetuate, if she
gets *****, it you and yours she’ll have to blame,’
Embarrassed now, I know I’ve said too much
I taper off, unsure of my intent.
My friend sits icy in her chair. Apart,
we stare, in careful study of our plates.
And as the waitress makes her slow approach,
to ask us if we want desserts - we flush.
Our indecision heavy in the air.