Psychic Windows Washed - Poem by Hans Ostrom
Red sun dropped below a psych-
iatrist’s left brain, not
to mention the Cascade Range.
The psychiatrist’s opinions rose:
“Computers aren’t anything,
and no one knows how the brain
produces emotions. Anyone who
claims to know is lying.”
On their tiny platform, window washers
dropped into view,17th floor.
Patient and psychiatrist looked
at them. They looked back.
The patient promised to call the psych-
iatrist, especially if the patient were to feel
like a blackbird flying over ice-fields or
to sing obscure anthems in retail stores.
The psychiatrist and the patient shook
hands. Dusk now. The window washers
winched themselves down. The patient took
the elevator. The psychiatrist could not
tell whether the windows were cleaner.
That would have to wait until morning.
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