Schwartz

Schwartz told me last week

I should confront my fears.

Give them names, if need be.

Take one out to lunch.

Another for stiff drinks.

Engage a terror or two in song.

It made good sense, at first.

Then my demons got too close.

Soon, I gained a bunch of weight.

Caroused until the wee hours.

And my voice grew hoarse

From aria after aria.

Even Chloe, my myna bird,

Had a few choice words —

Unrepeatable in public settings.

I informed dear, old Schwartz,

The treatment was worse than the cure.

But you’re doing swell, he said,

Nodding and smiling, wistfully.

You have the courage of a lion—

Well on the road to recovery.

If only each patient was as committed.

In the end, Schwartz had his way.

How could I deny him?

Still, I should tone down the dread.

They’re far too many agents,

Hanging around my apartment,

Demanding menthol smokes,

A raise in their paycheck,

And the ever illicit lover—

With no intention of leaving.