Orpheus In Therapy Poem by Leonard Kress

All that singing and all that grand passion
was not for her, oh no, let's be quite honest,
no, not to praise her beauty or the rest
of her fine package (just listen, calm down) ,
no, not her face or bolt-of-lightning hair,
not the arch arch in her back and not the place
you came to rest inside. (Refrain from, cease
these dangerous delusions!) All you care

about is the wild note of your own sick
grief, and how those jingling tears might serve
as currency in hell and how that plucked
string resounds inside the dark handpicked
audience of stone. You'd found the perfect lick
and then looked back to see if she approved.