Poem in Which My Therapist is a Puppy
Jacob McArthur Mooney
after Max Ritvo
My therapist is French Canadian
with long, fuzzy ears.
He tucks his toes beneath his bum
while I weep inside his weeping room.
The no-pills practitioner
is your best, most boring friend.
The selfless associate
who helps you paint your picture frames
but later compares your taste in movies
to his daughter’s
and you realize you never knew
he had any kids.
Come to me as a neutered purebred
and I’ll walk you to the park in search of squirrels.
Come to me as a surgeon
and I will flop down defeated in your driveway.
Come to me as a child
and I will teach you to read.
Come as a republic
and I will seek your sanctuary.
And on like this.
Until we have exhausted our supplies,
passing off the task
of protector and protected. Interpreter and page.
Like partners in a drawing class.
And every time you die,
or I die,
I will leave you one hundred
dollars on your desk.