When the psychoanalyst
Pulls out the piece of paper
And asks:
What does this look like to you?
I’d like to answer by saying
A bunch of black blotches on a page.
But that’s not what I said.
That’s not what you’re supposed to say.
You’re supposed to look at it really hard
And make an image out of nothing.
I can’t remember what I said.
But I do remember,
The woman making me repeat it,
asking for a back story.
I didn’t give it enough thought for a
“back story”.
No, I do not know why
the man is sitting at a park bench alone
eating a sandwich.
Maybe his wife left him
and he can’t make his own food
Because he’s the type of guy
Who’s been married so long
He doesn’t know how to not be married
So he bought a sandwich
I’ve never been married so,
I don’t know.
Maybe he just likes sandwiches.
It’s not my fault the black blotches
On the piece of paper
Look like a man eating a sandwich.
Now that I think about it
I was probably just hungry.
Why are you asking me
What these black blotches on paper
Look like?
Why don’t you tell me?
How the **** should I know.