Crazy
The psychiatrist sat
in his belle époque chair,
his beard a quenched fire,
crossed leg a hot wire.
He stared at me fixedly,
flirtatiously, fictively.
I closed my face another notch;
crushed haven on the velvet couch.
The questions were wrong
denser than dusk, older than insects,
each one packed with boxes
full of white mice and foxes.
Can you remember? not Can't you forget?
So much smoke and hot ash;
and after all that, his cigar
was just a cigar.
March 2025
posted for the Word List
running with the bureaucratic theme this week
Image: Woman Leaving The Psychoanalyst, ©Remedios Varo Fair Use
