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

for listening.

Photo By: Greg Wass