Like leaning on the horn in traffic.
As though someone just gave me a check for $8000.
Old and dry, like a box of corn flakes.
Like taking out a loan to bury myself.
Like eating Tupperware leftovers with a plastic spoon.
Like Dear Abby.
Puzzled.
As though I just took down the crucifix over my bed.
Worried.
Spoiled.
Ashamed of my disastrous home perm.
Like getting a Vespa.
Like fleeing with only my computer and books in a shopping cart.
As though I’ve crawled into a roll top desk to wait for it all to be over.
Like asking for a separate check.
Forbidden, foreboding, fucked over.
Like having a smoothie.
As though the presidents are all blending into one big suit and overcoat (for
inaugurations) and the snow is falling or it’s raining or they have runny
noses and you can see their same man-breath.
Like a deer that stops to eat but then turns into a sign that says “no hunting.”
Like staying in Florida with the tax breaks and hurricanes and pretty shells.
Paranoid. I’m sure she’s against me.
Guilty, guilty before I’m even charged.
Flush.
As insecure as a fatty at the beach.
As self-satisfied as lawyer having just won a case, celebrating with a steak and
cigar.
As glum as chewed gum.
As boastful as Hulk Hogan.
As cruel as Cruella Deville.
As simple as a crayon line.
Poor. I’m holding the reigns tight.
As though I should ignore what was said.
As though I should act.
As though I’m a character in a parable—three times today I was asked to help.
Like decorating my cubicle with twinkle lights.
As though I’ve hit an orange cone but kept going.
As though I’m sneaking up on myself.
Like I’m back on that Greyhound with the dirty silvery-gray bathroom without
toilet paper or paper towels and the people nodding off to headphones and the people making drug deals on cell phones and the young couple making out on the plaid seats with the broken foot rests and the exhaust smell and the bumps and the dandruff on the passenger in front of me and the cranky driver and the card players pulling down their trays for solitaire.
Fine.
Resolute.
As though I’m mourning, but I’m not sure exactly what it is I’m mourning.
Like the shortest side of a triangle.
Hopeless. Like a mother who hates her own children.
As though the crinkle between my eyebrows is turning into a permanent s.
As though I’m being sucked up through the clouds.
Ecstatic—is that wrong?
It’s a relief, to tell you the truth.
Like a young widow, like an old widow. Tender.
Wrong, wronged, wrung out.
How does that make me feel? How do you think?