When we talk about poetry, my psychologist rests his elbow on the window ledge just to the right of his chair, then rests the side of his head in his hand. I look at him — black beard speckled with white, black hair pulled back in a ponytail, black shirt, black tie, black trousers, black socks, polished black shoes — and think he looks perfect in this position. Sometimes his shirt and tie are dark blue. I wish I could figure out how to write a poem about him sitting like this.
When we talk about poetry, my psychologist, The Lovely Harry, will lean forward, legs spread apart, hands held together, his diary on the floor near his chair. This is his favorite position if we’re talking about what writing poetry is like. Well, less us talking about it and more me talking about how it is for me. I can see his brain tucking all this away, trying to understand it, wanting to see how it grows.
