Head-Shrinks and I

I went to a Freudian. She didn't

say anything, just took reams of notes.

I wanted to read them: No. Once

I said the word "emblematic,"

and she rolled her eyes. I quit

after the second session. Freudian

time-waster. 

A psychologist had me 

write charts of when I catastrophize,

over-react. They made for a good

map of how nutty I was,

but didn't crack the nut. 

I liked her a lot. 

Then a psychiatrist, polymath,

know-it-all. I listened a lot,

which suited my diffidence. 

I want to be told how to fix

things, not blab and gab

and gas-bag. He prescribed

meds that work. Finally! 

I just don't have the time

or energy to stay crazy,

you know? Too much of

a commitment. 

I noticed that if a session

ran out of gas (because I

didn't talk), a couple of shrinks

would say, "Want to talk about

dreams?" Inside joke among

shrinks, I think. Doubly funny,

as after I sleep through 

a great night of dreaming,

wild surrealistic rides,

I feel as sane as hell. 

hans ostrom 2022

Having a Word with It

I'm never quite sure of who you are,
depression. I ought to hate you. I don't.

It's like you're some kind of gray-garbed
circuit judge. You ride into town, glower
down at me, then summon me to a cold

brown room where we sit silently.
You like it fine. I start to stare

into a pit I've hallucinated.
Eventually you leave. Or seem to.
When they finally sort out all
the brain science, your current name,

depression, will seem as quaint
as a Model T. Anyway, . . .


hans ostrom 2016