***at Twenty Feet*** Poem by mark nwagwu

at which point do i defer
give him right of way
not make him think i'm defiant
might just push him off

when my blouse worn and torn
would not be scattered
and graze his clean white shirt

when the innocent air
would not be stirred
to inundate his nostrils
with my squalid odour

when my dandruff flaying
would not be guided
to his spotless shoulders

when i would be nothing
nothing to hate
nothing to behold
but an old broken woman

at twenty feet i reckon
i would step into black mud
leave the whitewashed sidewalk
for his anglo-saxon stride