An evening bus
No! The men who held the handlebar with one hand
didn’t grab my callipygian behind stuffed in a figure hugging
pair of blue jeans, your mother warned me against wearing.
No! They did not grope my double D cup breasts in their sweaty
after-work palms slicing their hands into my fleshy softness
to hustle a taste.
No! They did not hungrily graze their bodies against my
size 12 figure to feel a rush of blood in their
sleazy leather buckled pants.
What they did instead was stand piously away from me
lurked in cardinal longing for the chart busting music to change tune,
for the brake pedals to be punctuated
with just the right period
for Newton’s inertia to take charge
for earth’s balance to steer into the algebraic RHS
a syntactic shift
where the I in my consent became theirs to give
where they became the subject to my verb’s accord
so that jiggling their gastric bellies into my steatopygic ass
running their obese eyes down my t-shirt crammed with two bouncing breasts
jerking in to accidently stroke my small concave back
All divine design to violate my body
where assent takes the shape of a guillotined (wo)man
and my muffled voice
caught in the crosshairs
always religiously imploring
intent or accident
intent or accident?