Noah F. Grossman

  No, not me. I went in the opposite direction.
Before my twenty year high school reunion
I sold my Alfa Romeo for a used Subaru
so if anyone asked to see the odometer
I could show them, say I’d seen the country,
seen Tierra del Fuego. I massaged soil
into my skin to accentuate the lines
around my eyes. Made real wrinkles.
I let one fingernail grow long
like those mysterious foreign cabbies.
Just hope no one asks about it.
Not sure what to call what it adds
but it adds it. I’m slowly becoming a man
with experience. A shaman.
I’d never sought this type of life
but the one I’ve actually led is so
vacant of intrigue, so expected.
My novel’s been passed around to no avail,
my guest lecturer spot four years ago
never turned into a regular gig.
My dog grooming business I sold off in 2010
barely paid for my two bedroom.
The three women I dated
all left me to find husbands.
The kickball team I captain
has had only two winning seasons.
My basset hound Nugget died of cancer.
My shrink suspended our sessions
after failing to convince me that I
catastrophize. On top of all that
the multi-vitamin is making me fart.
I do hope they buy the shaman thing.
I stopped shaving two weeks ago
and I look pretty wise. But I miss the Alfa.
So far no one’s dared ask about my pinky nail,
surely a good sign.

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