Group Therapy (a poem)

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Group Therapy

So here we are in a circle. I guess
it wouldn't be so bad if everyone
wasn't so god damned depressed.

I'm thinking maybe all we need is a campfire,
songbooks, and some of that plastic fake leather
shit that you make wallets out of.








The guy next to me is very large. He breathes
audibly. For the next hour he does nothing but
breathe. I like him. The obese lady has not

stopped crying for exactly thirty-two
minutes. I slowly begin to realize that
it's never going to be over until the fat lady

dies. She mentions suicide. I leap to my feet and in
my best Dr. Jack voice offer my help. She cries louder. No problem lady. Do it yourself then.










Two guys across from me have obviously just
returned from some type of Bernhard Goetz subway
shooter look-a-like competition. I'm thinking that









they won. They are very nervous and appear stressed. Their movements are sudden. I make a mental note not to ask them for lunch money.








We go around the circle and tell our stories.
When it's my turn to speak I say "I'm new here
and have nothing to say." The very large man next

to me responds to the therapist with a slightly more audible breath and just the faint hint of a grunt. Everyone shifts in their seats. We take a break.








I walk to the lounge and sit next to the very large man. I tell him I agree with everything that he hasn't said. He breathes heavily, then surprises me with

a slight smile. I tell him that I agree with that also.
I spend the rest of our break wondering. Wondering
what this very wise man is doing in a place like this.










(from the chapbook ROCKING GENTLY OUT OF SYNC, 1997)
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