The man who watched me skip rope
in front of my grandmother’s apartment building.
The man who followed me home from school.
The man who waited at the corner in a paneled station wagon.
The man in the lobby of the dentist’s office.
The salesman in the toy department of Macy’s.
My uncle. My neighbor’s uncle. Uncles.
The man who rang the doorbell when I was home alone.
The man whose children I babysat.
My boyfriend’s father.
My best friend’s brother.
The man who drove slowly next to me
as I walked on Plainview Road.
Lots of men in movie theaters.
The man who caught the beach ball at the community pool.
The man who called 20 times in a row.
The man behind the bleachers.
The man who gave me a lift at the mall.
Dozens of men in the New York subway system.
A professor. A cab driver.
A tow truck driver. A cop.
The man who flew by me on a bike in a dim parking structure,
Lifted his head to the stucco ceiling, and howled.

Published in Adobe Walls, Trumped Anthology

Photo by Eva Blue on Unsplash