I’ve already penned two
full books of
poetry as art
therapy when the diagnosis comes back
negative. I’m not
Bipolar after all, it says.
The doctor assures me
I am nothing
of the sort. I am
healthy, best anyone can tell.
I want
to ask, then, what
the blue fuck
my problem is,
but I only
gasp “Imagine that,”
sign my release.
Self-consciously pay
my respects
to the fat, permed receptionist
on my way out
the automatic doors.
(2004)
