Put a lien on my leg hair,
Send the cops after widened legs on the bus home.
Charge me guilty of hissing
At the copse of men coming out of the liquor store,
Their grimy screed hitting the back of my neck like spit.
When alien hands lunge at my belt studs,
I’ll be ready, plucking off his fingers, arranging them in a bouquet,
And put behind bars for damaging his creed.
Jail is grim, and clean.