It’s my night to meet with Liz
To tell her “bout my private biz
She mulls it over then tells me how it really is
You see it’s her job
To listen to me cry and sob
Imagine that…
She gets paid to listen to me

Most therapists say:

“Having a little anxiety attack?
"How about some nice Prozac”
Or
Can’t sleep, feeling lost and alone?
“How about some nice Trazodone”
Or
“Manic Depressive? Feel like a ***?
How about some nice Lithium”

Not Liz…
She gives appropriate drugs
Better yet she gives big hugs
Encourages me my thoughts to share
Teaches me to live again if I dare
To break free from loss and pain
Knowing from the truth I might gain

More free time
For both of us

On
Wednesdays at six

must be plaid in there
in the cobwebbed little corners
of my mind
maybe paisley
pieces of a crazy quilt
on the washing line
being blown by gusty winds
whipped about
flapping wildly

one stroke
my fingers dance
in silliness
the pattern
crossing
left and right
colors mixing
circling 'round
forming no true
patterns

like stains from a paintbrush
splashed on canvas

no straight lines

splotches
swerves
circles
figure eights

when that
jitterbug
is ended

the dance card
fills
gently with a waltz

in prescribed
timing
rhythmic
patterns
made the same
for years

when the custom
of the final
bow is done

to the dance floor
my mind will drift once more

who knows
what pattern
will evolve
while it moves
its colors
to its
current tune

perhaps spangles and beads
under
spinning orbs
of light

or simply
black and white
two colors
forming a silhouette
of a two step

dancing
slow