The doctor's certificate certified
that my brain was a splutjabbing mess
on account of a purple depression
brought on by my wire-wool stress.
Referred to a young psychologist,
a practitioner of psychodrama,
I was encouraged to re-enact events
that had pierced my mental armour.
It's strange how real role playing becomes,
how despair's dank well soon appears,
within minutes my voice began trembling,
my sight bleary-blurred through the tears.
I was invited to halt the enactment
until near enough to gather myself
the trembling detrembled, the blubbing deblubbed
a hankie mopped up the nose filth.
After what seemed an appropriate hiatus
I was invited to carry on
I carried on by damaging office furniture
before making good my escape with a yucca.
Stephen Cree