Posted by Willowweeper on December 02, 2001 at 18:20:03:
My psychiatrist, a very short man
With salt and pepper hair,
Asked me why I spoke of "they" so much.
They surrounded the cross
Jesus was
Crucified on,
Some near,
Salivating their jealousy;
Some far, weeping.
They rode the Freedom Rides,
Raised the billy clubs,
Cried out in rage.
They said not to worry, that
They would take care of me,
But then wouldn't believe me.
They can save me or kill me
With as little feeling as
Squashing a cockroach.
They could congratualte themselves; or
Maybe, hang their heads in shame.
I thought of all that.
Then, I answered him,
"It's just
The way I talk."
And the Northeasterner shifted
Papers with fine print on his desk
And shifted himself in his leather chair.
Clearing his silver throat,
My doctor appeared to be distracted,
Running short on time.
Thirty minuts had passed,
Moving him to boredom--
Myself, I disappeared.
Against the tide of
They that were entering
In orderly lines
That stretched to the horizon
And beyound where
I disappeared.