To the woman in the leopard…

To the woman in the leopard bodycon dress

By Abigale Tabor

I hope the three dollars we gave you for gas

wasn’t the thing that killed you. Picture it:

us, getting out of the car—groceries in hand,

meltables melting in the heat, our bag handles 

lining our wrists in purple bands. Us, cleary 

wanting to go inside and you: approaching us

in the parking lot of the apartment complex

that we live in and you do not, telling us you

need (and don’t we all) just a gallon of gas 

to get from point A to B, and when we, not 

knowing what to say because we clearly are 

not in the mood or position to help but my 

husband, the gentleman he is, says to you 

I will see if I have cash, and when he gives 

you the three dollars in cash he has because

he doesn’t usually carry cash (and who does)

you walk away from the direction you pointed

in, away from the gas station your car is at, 

towards the bus stop, but passed that, too, to

somewhere we don’t know, and don’t want to.