Last therapy session
at 30,000 feet,
and dropping
We arranged for it to happen on a jet plane
both of us going to San Francisco
on the same day
(my psychotherapist for the Gay Pride Parade, me
for the reenactment of the Great 1906 Earthquake)
but five minutes after
we started the session up there
tray tables down, jet swung out over the sea
(me misty, our final session,
him taking notes)
the Fasten Seat Belt light came on in RED
the jet ding-donged disaster
and the pilot said we were going
down.
Lots of smoke out the window
we strapped in, scared stewardesses
turned Pacific-blue in the face
(cleverly color-coordinating the collision)
and my shrink asked one last question:
“Did your mother read to you when you were a kid?”
“Yes,” I said. “The Riot Act.”
He said, at 500 feet:
“Well, I can see why you're holding onto hating
her as hard as you're holding onto your tray table.
Oh, you probably should put that table up. So,
have we've reached closure?”
“I’ll say,” I said at 100 feet. “In more ways than one.”
