Arlene Corwin Poetry

           Impulsion

My brand new psychoanalyst agreed.

I could tell as he sat smoking in his tweed.

I’d found someone who understood my need.

Yes, I’d found someone , someone indeed.

My monologue was you and our affair;

The reason, as you know, why I was there.

I put aside my pride (I even cried).

As last, my silent analyst replied:

“You’ve got impulsion.

In the jargon of my colleague, Doctor Dyber G..Enetic,

It’s pituadrenalogic, in its early form kinetic.

Symptomatic is that hilo-satisfactatory pain

Pushing firmly, gently, always on the amatory brain.

But a functional disorder is not measurably plain –

So relax and we will see what we can do.

It’s possible there’s nothing wrong with you.”

My fifty minute hour flew

At twenty dollars per.

Parenthetically, I pay him less

Than all the rest, I’m sure.

Left the office, said “Goodbye, nurse.”

Reached the door and found my purse.

Took an Equanil to calm me down

And calmly feeling worse,

Took a Deximil to pick me up,

A stick of gum and nursed a cigarette.

How did it start?

Where is the cause now?

I guess I’ll have to blame it one my youth.

My applecart is applesauce now,

And my actions are neurotically uncouth.

I’ve got impulsion,

I’m very glad it’s got a name.

Now I can play my little game

Of poisons darts blown at your little picture frame.

I feel so stylish.

I feel so chic.

I’ve got impulsion.

©Impulsion 59.3.20

A Sense Of The Ridiculous; Our Times, Our Culture;

Arlene Corwin