Riverside Boulevard

by Kenton K. Yee

art by Odilon Redon, 1882

A barkeep goes to her therapist, says:

I can’t sleep—hypnotize me. So you do and take her

 

to Central Park Zoo and fall crazy in love.

She cuts tail        so you’re on your couch

 

rifling through web pages     pricing colonoscopies.

Your life’s mediocre. You’re a loser.     Your mother’s right.

 

Then you hear the lady in the balcony below you

bellowing into a headset        at her son.

 

No, I can’t bail you out.     No, I can’t take in your kids.

Know that I’ve worked my tail off to afford a balcony.

Yes, I’m saving up for tail-replacement surgery.

 

Her tale piques you.    You ask her out        to the zoo,

advise her to grab the tiger by the tail.

 

She struggles to hang on. The tiger bares its fangs      at you!

Its tail pops off.       The tiger leaps,

 

its front claws reaching        for your cheeks.

They maul you inside and out          like your father did.

 

The next day, bleeding, you can’t make heads nor tails

but your bipolar patients seem chipper enough.

 

You’re dying and they’re paying you by the hour to stay alive.

In the Hudson, fishes prowl for fallen Freudians to sleep with. 

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