Call Me Ma'am

At 25 I ascended a new plateau
that was the first time someone called me Ma'am.
It hit me off guard and left me disturbed
because up until then I was Oh Miss,
or more appropriately, excuse me Ms.
especially since I could still balance on one foot
carry a shopping bag on one hip
and a baby on the other
while hunting for the car keys
at the bottom of my purse
after finally remembering
where I parked the damn car
that OMG
had been keyed on the back,
both sides.
Four rows,
down to bare metal.
Candy apple red, used to be the color
before some asshole decided to add this
new detail to my four month old
with the sticker glue still on it, Subaru
and here I am-Ma'am, all formal like with
that nice young cop taking down every detail
writing up his report, filed in triplicate
and lost beneath a musty pile
on the Sergeants over worked desk.
Now I have to go home and face
the Mister and show him
what some hoodlum
just did.
Oh JOY!!
Next time
I will pack my can of
hornet spray, set to fire
straight into the pupils
of the scum sucking
waste
of a human being
who has opinions
about what other people’s cars
should look like.
The personal property of people
who have earned the right
to have nice cars
without scratches and dents
and I will park
on the empty side of the mall and walk.