Perp Walk With A Psychiatrist

So this is the walk of the tiny talk, bits
smaller than small talk, hallway chatter.

He’s a professional of jumping conclusions
who silently sees
he’s a knight of Freud’s Merlin
a runner for jargon dragons, and
for private unspoken
ernest humsmuggery

I smile and he seems to smile dumb
like a baby in battle babble, and
distracted in the hall, looks for a fiefdom.
Tiny talk to his office door.

He’s the shrink
who quirky faced smiles to himself, another
symptom for ink, but
irked in feigning sympathy, thinking:
if I can get through this day
my wife will be waiting

I say, how is your wife?

Pish tosh,
it’s not about me, its
about prescriptions, and I

say: it’s not about me either.
Tiny, tiny, say-so, say-so
blah, blah, blah

Maybe his wife will make him
mock-turtle soup. Oops, at door
a winning smile

He sits at his desk, looking down.
I seek a window view.

I climb out onto a ledge, and
fly away. I have
wings you know, and he
has guilt enough to
pop his own small pill that
the government plan pays for

Pish tosh,
it’s not about me.

If you hear me now
you’re nuts, though a
casual cashew is OK for you, just

don’t binge at all, ’cause
it’s a tiny symptom —
you know, billions of calories:
obesity is indecency

My prescription for you:
have an orgy of spirituality.
I am an angel
winging it
— Douglas Gilbert