One rarely spots psychiatrists on the subway

rubbing the haze of a long day's sessions

from their lean temples,

or thumbing through paperbacks that deal

with anything-but.

Wouldn't they like an update on who's

In the world and how they're doing?

Or would the ridership be wary of men and women

whose briefcases rattle with the tic tac

of pills, whose ears perk

like armadillos' at conversations

two seats over?

More likely we locate them in a bad joke,

in a wing-chair beside a firm couch,

a suicide statistic, a product seminar

with deli sandwiches courtesy of Pfizer or Roche

or Eli Lilly;

perhaps on the beach of a convention hotel

with a panorama of thong-clad beauties

who seldom talk revealingly

Before bed a psychiatrist sets his ears

on the night-table

and prays for a night of long silence

from a god who prefers

to listen.