Donít Go Out Tonight
Sometimes lessons can be found
in cheap fiction, as much as Hamlet
or Great Expectations. A thought profound
on accident emerges from
a picture formed, one that stays with you.
Who else but a churner of splat,
a miller of pulp, could turn out
an image like this: a woman
walking down the broiled LA streets,
not long after sheís attacked.
The rapistís mind is clean as ice,
but hers is tired, wracked,
a thousand questions jostling.
Should I report, or will that just make him
vengeful? Will doing nothing break the ice
and have him swimming back to me?
Finally, the evening sun still baking her,
she isnít scared so much as exhausted.
She just wanted to find her man.
(He never came back from buying rubbers.)
But streets are a dangerous place
for children and women. And streets
at night are even worse. Strange men
line the kerb with vans, sunlight reduces.
Pulp heroines learn this.
And so do real women.