3 a.m.

by | Dec 9, 2014 | Poetry

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

About The Author

Cheyenne McIntosh

Cheyenne McIntosh is currently finishing her undergraduate degree at Indiana’s Franklin College. Her short memoir piece “Objective” and poem “July 1996” have previously been seen in the Apogee. She tweets at 3 a.m. using @crm_writes.