Poem

I am picking my nose in the elevator, and can feel my pulse spike as my eyes watch the numbers rise.

Time is never of the essence like when you’re picking your nose in an elevator.

I take a judgmental glance at my smeared, golden reflection -- a voluptuous jesus-- and I think

how awful, how disgustingly awful if someone were to see. It would cause

that same low feeling of guilt that comes when I think of breaking Cassie's arm when we were children. 

Or not really guilt but a, ‘if I hadn’t that, I wouldn’t this’ kind of thing, and it’s not as complicated as it sounds,

that small moment of being caught and embarrassed.

The ascent is rapid, and as I crook my finger I think, ‘Oh, if only I were a dog!’

Licking your butt in front of mixed company must taste like freedom.

I talk about that with Sarah a lot, not feeling free. But no matter what I say, 

she’s getting paid to tell me it’s all my parents’ fault. The doors slide open, and 

I am not caught so my thoughts stop.  This must be the definition of relief.

Everyday Revelations

Yesterday I wrote a poem about a dead moth

on a scrap of paper.  Describing the way the vein pattern

on its wings stood out against soaked cement,

pitying its little drowned head.

I put it in the pocket of my jeans and went

about the day.  A couple times I thought

of little broken legs floating around

the tiny body, and how to add them later.

Asleep in flannel pants I let it die a second time, 

but woke up itching to put those legs into lines.

This morning the same jeans were where I

left them on the floor-- but no piece of paper.

Not crumpled, not folded, not in either pocket.

Above the light switch in the front hall, there’s

a picture of my parents on their wedding day.  Hands

clasped and heads together, smiles bright, and hair brown.

Today I pass the kitchen on my way to the desk,

and as their temples gray and time runs out, 

they make separate meals in silence.

I sink into the desk chair, but I can’t recreate my

little moth there or on my computer screen.

The cursor flashes over and over, laughing at the foolish

girl who thought insects and love went on forever.

Maybe things like that are just as much work as they are miracles.
I should have guarded that little scrap of paper with

my whole heart, not tucked it away and expected it to return. 

I know my parents have made the same mistake, and wonder

how many times they’ve looked for old feelings

in the pockets of jeans on the floor.