I’m having a conversation
with a security guard
where we psycho-analyze Spike Jonze
when he says, I don’t believe in shrinks
I don’t tell him that I see you,
once a week, 60 minutes,
that I tell you my problems
so you can rub your pregnant belly
and try to fix me.
I don’t tell him anything really
I just listen and nod
and he tells me about his Asperger’s
and his roommate’s emotions
and about a guy he knew,
friend of a friend,
who had rancid boots
and it turned out he was shooting
black heroin between his toes.
I think about my toes,
how at my last pedicure,
a Vietnamese metrosexual
used foam spacers to separate my toes,
the webbed skin stretched taut,
so the red polish could dry unsmudged.
I think about rubbing my belly
but I can’t fix his problems.
Can you imagine rancid boots?
I don’t answer, I just nod
so maybe he needs a shrink after all
because he gets louder the more I nod
and he mentions societal standards
how it’s all gone to the dogs
and how we all just self-medicate
and I’m listening and hearing
and thinking maybe
he wants to get laid
and hoping I don’t owe him something
Photo By: Greg Wass