The Smug Therapist

Claude Monet - Impression, Sunrise

THE SMUG THERAPIST

The smug therapist,
an expert on my particular 
flavor of mental disorder,
ejaculated, “I understand your brain
better than anyone else on the planet.”

This was our second session. 

He continued to boast and brag,
trying to bully my confidence
in his renowned expertise.

I could only think…

You understand my brain better than Tim,
whom I’ve poured my heart out to
for twenty years,
over weekly coffee and confession;

you understand my brain better
than my wife, who sees me at 
all the delicate phases of the moon;

better than Rilke,
who knows how to slice 
to the depth of me
with one translated pen stroke;

than Taylor Swift
who waits for me in my car
every Friday, with her red lipstick,
to teach me about my anima;

than Ralph Stanley
whose voice is an old ghost
haunting me even now;

better than Mallory,
who has his Lancelot 
weep like a child just been beaten,
when he receives divine mercy
knowing he is a fake, unworthy; 

than my little dog,
who drapes herself over my legs
when I kneel to pray, 
so that I can feel her tiny heart,
beating into my calves;

than St. Anthony,
whose hair and limbs are pulled asunder
by countless desert demons;

better than the publican
who couldn’t even lift his eyes to heaven,
but beat his breast,
over and over,
sobbing, “have mercy on me, a sinner.”;

than Robin and Pam,
the two doves that visit me
during my yard work,
bobbing their heads in a funny way,
because they know it makes me laugh;

than the bread and wine,
placed in my trembling, begging hands
at the sheep rail,
giving to me the real
presence of the divine;

than my machines at the shop,
who allow me to work them,
respond to my touch,
absorb my frustration 
and victory,
laboring with me eight hours each day;

better than the 16 oz. can of
Krombacher that I’m going
to crack as soon as I escape from here;

than those who have taken time
to read my poems,
who pause every so often at a line
and think, “he gets me.”;

—you know my brain better than they?

“You’re an asshole,” I told him;
his eyes suddenly widened in surprise, 
he finally shut his mouth.

I guess he didn’t see that coming—

(but I could hear Rilke softly chuckling
behind the blinds).