On Sunday night
my psychiatrist,
admittedly a
pretty strange bird,
surprised me by
making a whoos-call.
Wearing brown tweeds
and round spectacles,
he came and sat in a tree.
And every time he said,
“Who?”
I knew he was talking to me.
What’s more, just by
hooting all of his who’s for me
he filled every one of my prescriptions
for free:
a who for happy,
a who for content,
a who for peaceful,
a who for smiling in the dark,
a who for deep, deep
and dreamy,
feathery sleep.
Photo Credit: Hamad Saber Creative Commons License Flickr
