(Untitled)

Ruination of Indulgence

“Damn, I’d fck the shyte out of her!”

…was the last utterances I heard whispered,
seemingly flippant words exchanged between male friends,
during my exit of Starbuck’s where everyday I pay
seven dollars, fifty-six cents
to purchase my favorite beverage,
Choco-moco-latte,
why, because it thickens my caché,
plus its strong, black and steamy
exactly similar to the men I love, like, lust,
just open my mouth and enjoy both, mmmmm.

I digress, door opens, door closes…

fumbling with these car door keys,
in a rush to leave,
I stopped to contemplate the disrespect
never mind heading to the date I should’ve cancelled,
damn you speak of me so ineffectual,
so sexual, especially considering the contextual,
in public,
business establishment,
talking loud enough for subconscious registering,
but not enough to stir about a reaction?

I digress, door opens, door closes…

Headed back in, drink spilling,
slightly burning,
trembling hands becoming stiller with each step toward a man
who objectified me in the illest of terms,

HE WILL LEARN A LESSON TODAY

ME: “Excuse me, did I hear you say you’d fck
the shyte out of me?”

HIM: “No, I was speaking of the white girl seated
on the couch in the corner, you’re wrong to assume
I was speaking of you. I don’t date black women.”

LESSON LEARNED

…I went back to register, quickly though hesitant,
returning the latte to the attendant,
“this is the wrong order, it belongs to the blonde
seated on the couch in the corner.”

Exiting the establishment still thirsty, I thought,
“Maybe an Icy will do, something nice
and cold to remind me of my least favorite
indulgence, Black men…”