The Psychiatrist

He sways through the room like a peacock,
opens his feathers, then sits down.
It’s his power strut, the one
disguised as beauty and sensitivity:
he wants to hear my dreams.
I read them from my journal
and he doesn’t say a word until I finish,
a whole week of the unconscious,
You’re doing much better.
He struts to his desk for a phone call
and returns. Where were we?
Your dream about Tunisia...
No, I say, Morocco. He cocks his head,
offers a few words—anima, mother complex.
He wants to know why I don’t settle down,
says he hates to travel, even hates to drive,
makes him nervous. He rests his bird legs
on the ottoman and studies me, and I am gone,
into the labyrinth of the medina in Meknes,
around one corner and then the next.
The rain beats down, and not one thought
about ever finding my way out.