Therapy exists because
some people are so mean
that meanness is all they own.
Their soul thrives on the consistency
with which they recycle their meanness,
shrinking the spirit in all they touch,
making everything smaller and drabber
than it was ever meant to be.
Though I have used therapy, I don't like it.
Like my hero Kierkegaard I mistrust the soul
ascribed to me, and pray to be less divided.
As the grave calls honestly for my bones,
I find they are what I follow, to know
how full of ease with life I should be.