Bants

By Rachel Macaulay

Years ago, when I was a waitress 

I waited on a famous footballer 

As I read the specials 

To him, his father, 

His gorgeous glossy wife 

And as I took their order 

Standing beside the table 

The footballer ran his hand 

Up and down the back of my thigh 

One night in the kitchen 

Waiting at the pass 

One of the chefs grabbed my hands 

And held me 

While another held my hips 

And pretended to have sex with me from behind 

Ask any woman 

Old enough to have been to a bar 

How many times a man 

Has grabbed her waist in passing 

Or how many times she’s been groped

By a seemingly disembodied hand 

Ask any woman 

How commonplace it is 

To be touched without permission 

And ask yourself 

Who gave these men the idea 

That they had every right