If ever I am walking and come across a cross walk—
and there is a car that does not yield—
that swings wide, splashing me with a puddle—
or just generally takes precedence
over me and all other pedestrians—
I have observed these drivers are typically women,
maneuvering stick shifts or automatics.
Sometimes, even with a man in the passenger seat.
And these women, I imagine-- see me and recognize
that I am of the gentle sort—the kind
they can take full advantage of.
Even in matters of written law,
these women seem to believe
that they are still entitled to go first.
“After you,” they seem to think they hear me say.
“Ladies first,” as I dart out of the way,
waving my fist and rattling their hood when I can.
In matters of crossing the street, I can give a damn
about chivalry, etiquette, or any other manners—
if I am being raped of my right of way in their rush
to get where ever it is that they are going.
If ever I am accused of being misogynistic,
it is because these women drivers
have crossed my path, well out of turn—
and just with a waddle of their wrist,
apologize for nearly crushing me.