On Things Said in Confidence

Well, there it is: ever since the scabies
your hair has been falling out—stress, probably—

and now whatever body, so informed,
has you sitting with a shrink on a beanbag

holding your wrist and taking deep breaths.
Oh, it’s a sad story. Oh, I don’t know what you’ll do.—

Here’s a guess, though.
You’ll scratch at the pits until the pits are raw.

And the hair, the hair’ll go too,
by tearing, by force, by loneliness,

and, some time from now, there you’ll be,
all child, tugging my arm

into the hallway, where you’ll unload
your little stories: scabies and baldness,

loneliness and baldness,
deep breaths and baldness.—

I know what I am here for.
You are cured, old man,

cured at last, and
it was magic, magic, magic.