Therapy

Let that man in his chair, in his oxford cloth
Shirt, take his notes, and make sense of a
Mountain of details. The facts are apt to
Seem stark to him. His queries all circle
That key word: depression. You've ceased
To see anything good in your days? You
Think about suicide, spend every hour
A motor seized up, lacking oil or joy?
Were your parents neurotic? (Were anyone's
Not?) Well, it's probably chemical. We'll
Give you pills, and your love, and her needs,
And the little she gives you, the awkward
Constraints, and the nights with your wife,
Who's in charge of the purse strings and
Joyless herself, will be part of the mountain,
But none of its ore. You're depressed,
You poor moron, because of your life.
It's beyond us to change it. What we've
Learned to do is to teach you to pretend
It's not. Take your pills. Pay your bill,
And be sure to be back in a week to
Be propped up by oxford-cloth man
In his chair.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 61 times
Written on 2015-06-25 at 01:59

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