So To Speak

I can’t write anymore.
I hire an editor.
She gives me the name
and address of her therapist.

I arrive at the front desk.
I share a recent dream
in which I tell a stranger
nobody understands
what I’m trying to say.

The receptionist says
she’s not a therapist.
She’ll be with me in a moment.
She looks thirsty.
I’m talking about the receptionist.
I’m told to keep my voice down.

I tell a stranger I’m vulnerable.
Don’t announce this
in a dark alley after midnight.
Or on a first date
if you’re into meeting people.
A blog is fine.
I’m done with books.

I read a book I don’t understand
in the waiting room.
My name is on the cover.

I’m lost in thought.
I ask a stranger why
nobody understands
a word I say.
He smiles and says
I’m in the right place.

Books are finished.
I buy mine on Amazon.

I write down everything
I’m trying to say.
Someone I’ll never meet buys
my book and it arrives by drone.

An author waiting for his therapist
tells me he can’t write
any more books.
He loses his voice and falls asleep.

My book drops.
Nobody picks it up.

My therapist finds me
asleep in the waiting room.
She asks for my name.
I show her my book.

I’m thirsty.
She gives me water
in a small paper cup.
I take a sip and find
my voice again.
So to speak.