CONVERSATION ON THE STREET Poem by Ester Naomi Perquin

A man speaks, no, he doesn't speak, he screams into his mobile
who the hell, he takes a breath, he sees me standing there,
who do you think you are

with your so-called manners your rich friends
your completely-booked-up week your good job
his voice breaks the phone open

the woman rolls out over the street, half dressed, mascara
smudged, scrambles to her feet in shock
and he starts again from the top

who do you think you are and watches me while hitting her,
watching until I shout enough stop she's already
curled up in a ball she's not hurting you man stop

but he's not finished yet and watches me and asks
who do you think unrelenting forming words
in the palm of his hand you are
and doesn't stop again