Smile

men say who don’t know me,

they all feel entitled –

A friend of my parents says,

you’d be a beautiful gal if only you smiled.

Men on construction sites:

hey sweetness, smile for me,

a waiter in a coffee shop 

serving tuna on toast,

a bus driver when I drop coins in his box:

Miss, have a smile on me, it’s free,

a soot-covered man on the street

with newspaper wrapped around his feet –

the clerk who sells me cat food.

I hear a man on the subway mumbling

under his breath.

Smile

my father would say

when he reached for my hair

wanting to bury his hands like stash.

I’m told again and again

mostly by men –

my doctor says 

I can’t leave until I

smile.

Another doctor, my shrink,

asks why I never do it,

and when I mention that in Paris

you are considered stupid

if you walk around grinning,

What you need he says is a sense of humor.

Another therapist

once asked me to recite a joke,

and all I could come up with

was knock, knock, who’s there –

and when he asked me who

I answered that’s the problem:

no one’s ever there.

And always

when I move among the world

I lock my jay,

walk faster, keep my eyes down,

say nothing, and remind myself:

                        This is who I am.

                        I don’t smile.