Early one Tuesday morning

PUBLISHED:
The New York Quarterly (The ONE poem that make me a NYQ Poet!)
Number 37
October 1988

Early one Tuesday morning
you'll walk into this very same room and sit down, primly
cross your legs, and sit perfectly still, as only
you can. And, as usual, I'll be attired in my best demeanor.
"Today, let's start with my agenda," you'll say
as I routinely start to slip out of it;
slide it easily up my torso, over my head, then discard it.
"Are you still taking four Lithium a day?" you'll ask
though by now I'm sitting naked before you,
my prized demeanor lying crumpled on the dusty carpet.
"What about the anti-depressant?" you'll continue
while I take your hand, methodically taste each finger,
then trace the lines in your palm with my tongue.
"And the Xanax, how much are you taking?" you'll inquire
as I unbutton your shirt, move my face over
your chest; nuzzle the thick blonde hair, the erect nipples.
"What about your other medications?" you'll query
while I smoothly unbuckle your thin brown leather belt, unzip
your slacks, tug them and your bikini briefs down.
Then start a frenzied search for your appendectomy scar.
"This is not therapeutic!" you'll cry,
finally having noticed your own state of near nakedness.
"Nor would any of my peers approve!" you'll wail.
Reacting immediately; I'll pluck out my brain,
and then frantically offer it to you in way of an apology.
"Have you been feeling suicidal lately?" you'll ask.


(All Rights reserved by author: evvy garrett)