Psychaitrist

It happened again today. It

was as if I was back
at the psychaitrist's office,

a sterelized landscape;
with tables and chairs.

"How are you feeling today,
Jeremy?" He prodded.

This was an invasion; not
one that I would find

comfort in- but of course,
the doctor found it

only routine. "I'm alright,
doctor." I dreaded

the proceedings- this fantastic
silence that follows. If poets

were given a say, we would
proclaim it,

"The Deafening Silence". Alas,
the smell of bleach

and prescription here, would
make any poet faint.

"Yes, did you say something?"
The doctor eyed me suspiciously.

I shook my head. "You said something
about 'The Deafening Silence'..."

His anticipation was grinding me

to pieces. I had said nothing; only
my thoughts said it. But,

the cliched description of silence
yelled out at him still-

"Let's talk about something else," I said.

"No, Ignatiaus. You'd have to
answer me first," he insisted

with his voice presto. I looked at
him- "there is nothing wrong

with me, Doctor!" There
was nothing wrong;

I just felt sad. He stared
at me again, suspicious than ever.

Our eyes locked like lovers, but
I was too depressed/confused

to be in love.

He typed something into his computer;
and then, he sent me away

from his office. With medicine.
He was angry with Jeremy,

not me- Ignatiaus. I walked out
of his clinic, drugs in hand;

as if I had never been in there.


cuRRent...jer  ¶ 4:20 pm