"doc, - "

hey doc,
i really need your help.
i can’t stand my life anymore.
you think i should try meds?

prozac? really? if you say so,
i guess i'll give it a try
even though you brush off my questions
and don’t look me in the eye.

i'll see you in six weeks.

well, doc, i'm back.
how are you? how’re the kids?
yes, i know you’re busy;
yes, i'll get on with it.

my symptoms are a bit better;
the side effects are fine.
i’m constantly tired, but
no thoughts of suicide.

but, doc...

now there's more prozac than blood
running through my veins.
yes, they help, but these drugs
have taken over my brain.

who i am isn't me;
it's a stranger with my voice.
i'm doing better, sure,
but it’s because i have no choice.

you and me both know, doc,
this wasn't what i meant.
isn't there something besides this?
can't you help me just be myself?

a moment

the tenth floor of the library is quiet;
i am the only person in sight.

the elevator i have been waiting for arrives,
empty.

i step in, the doors close,
and i watch the floor number
go down to nine.

the doors open
and a man comes in.
he presses the button,
coughs,
looks at his watch.

on the seventh floor,
the doors open
and there is a long pause.

we wait; we breathe.
i stand perfectly still, silent,
clutching my stack of books,
and the man beside me is silent, still,
holding his paper cup of coffee.
no one is there.

we are frozen,
exposed,
a tableau vivant of two strangers
in an elevator.

the doors close again and the elevator goes on,
but there, for a moment,
we were a ten-second drama
viewed by none.

the moment passes.

we reach the main floor.
i rush out
and he rushes out
and other people rush in...

and we are no longer
a work of art.