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.