The psychoanalyst

In the psychoanalyst’s office
I’m being analyzed by five aliens
inside their spaceship
of most magnificent nothingness.

The alien with the mustache takes notes,
scholarly notes, catechistic notes,
in melodramatic ink,
and with religious precision
he psychoanalyzes me.

Specimen: humanoid.
Stature: pathetic.
Beauty: nonexistent.
Intelligence: nearly null.

Presents delusions of grandeur
based on poems and minor memory distortions.
Wanders inside hallucinations
he himself wrote with absurd metaphors
and war vocabulary.

Thinks, often, that he is at war.
And worse —
writes about it.

Diagnosis:
Poetry: feigns grandeur
to describe a misery
and in the attempt,
the misery gains real grandeur.

Patient is unstable
but functional
for now.

Returnable to his little planet,
just one more solar system,
just one of eight billion,
or whatever math feels like saying these days.