Therapy with Freud During Austrian Hours

[Poetry In Motion]

Given the chance I would have with Freud,
Perhaps he would be so kind as not to laugh.
The man would sit there motionless, eyeing his book
like it was a newspaper, the man is brave.
Since I felt like wandering around the room, his paintings
and Francis Bacon art were intimidating.
And since I found him looking like a shark
with that jawbone hanging out there like a hook.
It seems as my therapist is too preoccupied with books.
He tries to talk to me with a smile and with deep breaths.
(At least he notices me) like he was going to asphyxiate.
Something about his breathing made me sick.
Yet I continued to speak about my problems.
The man looked like he was going to say something.
But stuttered the whole time—this could not be true.
I thought Freud was a flawless human being.
I thought he was someone I could trust.
 
The man had to be smart: he was Freud after all.
I hoped the horse-shaped man that he was
was something I can look up to.
After all, he was someone special, someone bright.
The man told me about his book The Interpretation of Dreams.
Yet I wanted to know if he was someone I can trust.
Can I trust him?
I feel like I can’t.