The Yellow Pages

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.