Therapy with Freud During a Siesta Part 2

[Poetry In Motion]

During a therapy session I made a list about what keeps
me on my tippy-toes when I sit, I spread my legs out with my
tippy toes like a Thai mistress.
Freud was making odd gestures with his hands, Austrian style.
I thought I was going to catch more air through my mouth
than usual, I guess when you’re the target for psychosis
than you got to stay with the pros, Freud told me how
he once stole a mannequin and put it in his car.
But still I wondered if he was kidding.
I wondered if these feelings I had for him were real.
Ethereal, special, mostly something special, I was gay.
 
The way I trusted him in his attempts to cure me.
I was alright, alright from the fact that he was my doctor.
And evermore the figure who amalgamates reason like a philosopher.
To something more in his work, his books. Something divine.
I might need to check out what he has in store for me
when all I have left is my reason to blow a kiss to him.
And what I feel for Freud is that I think he is special.
Someone around me must feel the same way too.
Others might not understand, understand my ways.
Freud is my master, big boss, my universe.
Nothing can take that away from me.