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Sleepless in New Haven, I read this hotel room’s only other book. Power-suited lawyers on the back cover advertise to sue for antidepressant suicides if families will call 1-800-BAD-MEDS...
Sleepless in New Haven, I read
this hotel room’s only other book.
Power-suited lawyers on the back cover
advertise to sue for antidepressant suicides
if families will call 1-800-BAD-MEDS.
Flipping pages, I find Fenway’s layout,
where to arrange an abortion, and how
to convert my gold wedding band to cash.
I search for Psychiatry colleagues in the P’s
only to find “Psychics and Mediums,”
“Psychoanalysts,” and “Psychologists,”
my tribe sunk between “Obstetricians”
and “Radiologists” under Physicians.
Fifteen women and men, some in solo
practice, others in groups, bold faced
ads touting board certification, and I
imagine myself as someone who suffers
enough to crave an appointment,
imagining their voices, diplomas,
leather chairs, comfort they might offer,
just a stranger’s late night fantasies
of finding himself with the shoe
on the other foot, as if the Yellow Pages
were his only hope when
the Bible held no answers.