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To His Former Psychologist
No longer do the dreams come true
all our birds lie
dead.
The streets run straight now
and speak of fast death
more quietly.
Most people have mouths a few have eyes
there are no ears
yet.
I have checks, a phone, a car: the trappings of a person
infected with
normalcy.
I did all those things you suggested
and even believed in your
happiness.
I lunched with a woman once
pretending I was you
horribly.
I work hard daily
and try to fit
in.
My phone's unplugged as I write this
so I can think of you and
remember
How we made contact nearly
and how I shrank away
back inside
Saying, "I am well," agreeing
lip-service to my ashamed
family.
No one knows to this day
that I'm insane -
(least of all you)
And death is all my dream and curse
my dreams no longer
coming true.
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