Portrait of Sigmund Freud by Max Halberstadt (c. 1921), Wikimedia Commons, public domain.
Yours truly, Couch
Just sit down, he said –
and I'd feel the crunch in my back –
with the occasional extra plump,
as a visitor reseats themselves.
One by one, people settle -
on my qashqa'I carpet,
To get in touch with their mettle.
I listen carefully to each word of his,
Allow his visitor to feel cherished,
A little bumped up,
Perhaps a little blemished.
As they divulge their thoughts,
And benefit from his analysis.
The smoke of his cigar,
Spreads in puffs around me,
Intoxicating him, leaving a sour taste,
As I listen to conversations carrying a scar.
Boredom is hard. And leads me to plea,
For some insight and creativity.
As he speaks, my pillows change the mood,
Resulting in a grand discovery,
Which his visitors eagerly share,
Exploring the shrubbery,
Of their day to day lives.
Alert to this newfound insight,
He reaches his pen,
And for hours,
Holes up in his den,
Writing down what we've done together.
In exchange, I find myself,
My bottom, well taken care of, and,
Learning of his Oedipus complex,
Wanting to spend some time warming up his.
Our theories changed the world,
And while they may no longer be en vogue,
At students they are still hurled.
Though I did not lead your pen along,
My sweet warps of your subjects' butt,
will gladly take the credit swan song.
From Vienna to London I voyaged,
Though my time in the Isles resulted in dismay.
All I did, was to bid Adieu, into the void,
To my dearest Freud.