If you want politically correct
you’re in the wrong place.
You know what he’s like –
brash, self-indulgent, in yer face.
His arrogance is refreshing,
his challenge to convention
a wake-up call, a kick in the butt.
So you’re sitting there, bowling along
to the rhythms of his expletives,
his heckoring tirades.
And then he acts out this story:
a woman standing up to him,
his hand raised, ‘Shut up bitch’,
the motion of striking.
The laughter is uncomfortable
but in the moment
when you might have objected
you imagine him turning towards you,
sneering, calling you bourgeois.
So you sit tight, diminished
by your failure to stand up,
to be counted.