The music outside my psychiatrist's office doesn't have words --
is that on purpose?
Am I meant to look at the leather couches and listen to my
indecisiveness for the ten minutes before I pronounce it? Is catharsis meant to follow
the stone elephant on the glass table, the mauves and operatic alto notes?
It doesn't, but maybe it will if I sit still a bit and look at Home & Garden
next time, and stop thinking that the decorations are nicer than I'd like them to be,
rather stately compared to the nitty-gritty capsule contents
I'm meant to ingest following our meetings.

Written in 2008.