A Session with my Shrink: The Art Institute of Chicago

At this tree back then, twenty years ago, we sang

the sweetest of songs, my brother. The air

was between the cracks on our lips. Meringue

performed its dance on our taste buds. So bare

were our minds—enormous, protective, violent—

we had forgotten to notice the birds.

But who cares? They may as well have been silent

when the tulips in the field gathered in herds.

Such a lovely phenomenon we discerned

as our tea grew cold and seasons shifted.

The look on your face was one of concern.

Dear brother, advise me on how to keep you lifted—

A women taps my shoulder: “Excuse me

The museum is closing in 5 minutes”.

“And so is our meeting, let’s recap”.