No Country for Old Men

No you didn't honk at me, man in the run-down Chevy, tongue peeking through
tobacco-stained tooth window, man at the drive-through ordering a greasy sub
of oven-roasted breasts. No you didn't shout show me your cunt, man who walks past
my backyard pool and assumes I want to fuck him because anything too obnoxious to ignore
should be tapped. Dear men who figure gesture me while I'm running, implying obscene,
impossible poses that even Barbie would break beneath. Dear men who can't stop
the crescendo of coughs then offer moist palms. Dear middle-aged and beyond
gym gawkers and mall mongers, dear men in line at the Miami post office, sizing up
blondes while handling awkward packages. Your impossible-to-avoid lasso eyes
and sideways strip stare— maybe you think I didn't notice you parked in front of the bodega,
claiming bench with your bloated boundaries. You and your inappropriately white
ankle socks, always kinked and crooked on nearly-hairless knob legs. Dear deliverer
of unwanted tangents, provider of stories with no purpose or end, dear sort-of old men
and your sort-of conservative politics spewing from too-liberal tongues. You and your litany
of stupid knock-knock jokes. Lurking, insisting, inspecting. Dear man who could be
someone's grandpa or my grandpa or that creepy Uncle Joe who isn't really
related to anyone but is always drinking Coors Light and sweating way too much
for December. Dear man in Greece who shrugged as he showed me his dick in the park,
dear too-loud Starbucks Macchiato sipper, some always stuck in your topiary moustache,
dear should-be-avoided Everyman and nondescript Not-Now-or-Neverman, how could I
respond to your avalanche of unwanted advances? Keep your plague of innuendo contained
to the sock drawer next to your Sears wallet and two government-issued ID cards.
Mister checkout-line chatter, mister shoulder-corner-me at the bank and box me in till I blush,
mister yakkety-yakker and smarmy, persistent stalker, your product line expired the same year
as your wardrobe. You don't know better, but you should at least know that when I make it
a point to ignore you, take the hint instead of hollering that one there's playing hard to get.

Corey Ginsberg studied creative writing at Carnegie Mellon University and Florida International University. Her work has most recently appeared in publications such as The Cream City Review, The Los Angeles Review, Pank, Subtropics, Gargoyle, Memoir(and), and The Writer. Corey currently lives in Miami and works as a freelance writer.