It will happen this Monday between landings two and three
by Abigail F. Taylor
The hand that slides up the silk slip, in the dark
corridors and on the stairs and the face that leers
flashing blunt teeth as fingers touch clean thighs.
She aches for the freedom of a gropeless lunch hour.
Something must be done, she knows this
after months of enduring rough palms and sinister remarks.
The windpipe came away with a sigh of
air that was still warm. All that could be said was,
God rest his soul...
and his rudeness.
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