Sunday, 9/19/10 - Freud Was An Archeologist

(dedicated to those sleeping with armchair psychologists)




Come in, you say,
          sit down,
                    relax
and point to the couch:
          leather, black.
Hands lie folded like doves in your lap
while the words you whisper
          dig
                    into
                              my
                                        past.

"I am" is the site you excavate,
With sickle sharp
          question marks
                    to clear the space
while exclamation points detonate
through the granite crust formed with age.

What once lay buried is brought into the light
the darkest recesses of my head
          split wide
you sift through the rubble trying to find
hidden secrets from an ancient time.

In my dirt on your hands and knees
wipe your forehead on your sleeve
while logging my history
          piece by piece
a few clay pots
          some bones
                    and teeth.

Now you'll feel better, I hear you exclaim
Reassembling myself, I nod through the pain
of a past that's been robbed
          till nothing remains
so we make plans for next week
          and more of the same.