A Love Poem To The Man Shouting At Me

By Teresa Spencer

Welcome to our series “Love Poems to Cat Callers!” Every week we’ll bring you a new poem by Teresa Spencer, read by a different woman celebrating the joy that is being sexually degraded on the street. This week, July Westhale reads her tender homage.

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To The Shouter

A prose poem to the street harasser who just turns up the volume. “How you doin’ tonight?” You asked me, sotto voce. And then again, still in dulcet tones, but with rising fervor: “How you DOIN’ tonight?” And, finally, a third time, your throaty baritone ricocheting off the night air: “HOW YOU DOIN’ TONIGHT?” I like that you understand passion and volume to be equivalent. You’re obviously a subtle man, delicate in sensibilities, refined in delivery.

Might you and I continue the conversation? Let’s scream sweet nothings right into each other’s faces. I want to roll over in the morning to discover your warm body swathed in a tangle of bedsheets and dappled sunlight, and shout “GOOD MORNING, LOVER” into your tender eardrum. I want to grow old with you, accumulating noise complaints and early-onset hearing loss. Someday, when we are frail and gray, my love for you will rest gently in the simple exchanges between us. “Baby, it’s your brother on the phone . . . No, I KNOW your mother’s dead, it’s your BROTHER. Just pick up. JUST PICK UP THE PHONE.” God, I burn for you.

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Lead Image: Modified from Flickr / Paul Cross

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