Distrust

Why is that cop looking at me? I'm sitting in my car reading the sports pages, idiot. Let law abiding citizens alone.
She settles in behind me at the coffee shop and I know she's peeking over my shoulder at my laptop where I am checking out photos from the new Baywatch movie. Get a life,lady.
I enter the gym and everyone takes note of me, the old guy. No one wants to dress or workout near the old guy with wrinkled elbows, especially the young women. I just want to stay toned. I'm not looking for a trophy wife.
I am squeezed into this tiny room, surrounded by poets who can read my mind. I have to think literary thoughts, nothing salacious or they will report me to that bored, cruising cop outside. Thinking dirty thoughts at poetry meetings is a Class C felony in NJ.
I trust none of them, including the baristas. They're all in on it. I can't flee. I'm trapped. Focus. Think wholesome, poetic thoughts.
I don't trust myself either.