If you’re a white pretty girl in Harlem

with a yoga mat protruding from your bag

policemen will come to your rescue

when your metroCard swiping skills fail.

“You’re going crazy, lady

let me open the emergency door!”

Thanks.

The world is at my feet.

How do they know I’m not cheating?

How does anyone know I’m good?

I might be evil.

Is that what you’re trying to find out

when you gaze at me for one full minute

or is it just your “tentacles” stare

the Russian technique

that you’re testing on me 

and her, and her, and her?