What Makes a Psychiatrist Cry

At ten past ten I hear the clock tick,
feel furnace air on my face,
watch a dust ball bounce the blond wood floor.
I inspect my pen, wishing it could write
the story of why you're not here.
For six months you've scraped your knees
raw in the rough schoolyard of memory.
Now that you're gone without a goodbye,
I am alone with memories of loss:
last week's death of a dialysis patient,
the day I watched my father
float on the clear Caribbean
and knew for certain he was dying.
If you were here I'd hold these thoughts
like a wafer of glass between us,
light enough to balance without your notice,
and I would watch you rage and watch you cry,
my eyes wandering from your face to the clock,
fixing on the half-fallen storm window,
drifting outside to a white birch,
the yellowed leaves clinging tight
before their letting go.

© CME LLC
7/01

Read more of Dr. Berlin's work.