Red of face and blue of hair,
with his pet BirdCat always there,
both patently identifiably themselves,
diving down at me like flying elves,
Psychoanalyst Juan Van der Wiesen
will not otherwise supply a reason
for returning than to say “it’s me!” –
stating something I can plainly see.
He then scrutinizes me for evidence
I had not realized (or not disguised)
that I am still alarmingly unwell.
That is generally when I hear the bell
on BirdCat’s yellow neck ring twice:
two shakes of it warn “Now, be nice!”
because he knows if I am not,
poor BirdCat will be in a spot:
Juan Van Der Wiesen will not leave
until he sees I ardently believe
in his prodigious diagnostic power.
If instead, as has occurred, I glower
at him for his rank ineptitude,
BirdCat will start to cry for food
which he will not be fed
until I have vociferously led
the analyst to understand I think
he’s diagnosed the missing link
to why I am a rank ungodly mess.
BirdCat can’t eat till I confess.
But that’s not what I did today.
Right through their fraudulent display,
I said I saw: “I know you don’t exist!”
I whisked them out of sight like mist –
a whoosh! – and that was that.
But I admit I miss BirdCat.
I cried before I went to bed:
I’m why he never did get fed.