The guard at CVS is having a conversation
with himself, using his hands to punctuate
answers to imaginary questions.
This might be a good time to pocket
the lip gloss, while he’s so involved in making
his point. I nod at him, how’s it going,
but he’s too absorbed talking to no one.
At this rate I could steal more than just a gloss,
so I go for the small but expensive moisturizer—
the one they usually keep locked up behind the glass.
I wonder if it’s less greasy than what I use at home—
wonder if it would make my skin more dewy and youthful.
The guard loves whomever he’s not really talking to.
I grab the cream—stick it in my purse.
I have money, just want some excitement,
haven’t stolen anything since junior high.
My heart doesn’t race like it did back then—
not getting that energy-high, rosy-cheeked thrill.
Maybe I should up the stakes and try stealing something
that can’t be concealed. What about that pink chaise lounge?
I check for a sensor. Nothing. Not even a price tag.
This is my moment. I walk past the guard, still entranced
with the voices in his head. I’m embarrassed to say
it was easy. I often wonder about the guard
when I lie in the chair in my backyard
where I’ve confined myself for the rest of my life,
my skin glowing.