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Poem 18: My OCD

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My OCD


I washed my hands 85 times today.

I then dirtied them on the doorknob.

I slammed the door 85 times as though to say

“Here I am, annoying angry mob!”


Sure enough, the people came out full force,

gathered round to hear me yell

85 times, of course.

They then rang my doorbell.


I buzzed them in 85 times.

Some left in disgust.

Those were the ones less sour like limes,

the ones I could better trust.


The ones that stayed were full of rage.

They beat me to a pulp.

They told me to act my age.

All I could do was gulp.


85 times, of course; by the time that I was done

they were gone from my place.

My magic number should really just be one

but to my shame and disgrace


I filed 85 police reports

about what had gone down that day

and got back 85 retorts

that I can’t always get my way.


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