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Best Poems From
ROBERT DICKERSON
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49.
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Oedipus Ad Doctorus
-Good evening, Doctor.
-Hi, Eddie, long time no see.
-Ed, not Eddie.
-Of course. A man has the right to be called by whatever name he wishes, doesn't he?
-Yeh. A month, is it?
-Three weeks and four days, to be precise. How's it going?
-So so. You know. Same old same old.
Wha'd'ya'mean?
-Oh, the same old dream.
-Still? Exactly the same? No difference?
-Not that I can see.
-Tell me about it again.
-My wife is a major player. I'm sleeping with her, see? It's nighttime. Everything's going fine. In the morning I wake up. She turns to me, her arms out. She's become my mother! It's very unpleasant. Very distressing.
-Curious.
-Do you know what that's like? Instant paranoia! I can't shake it. In fact, I'm coming to believe it. In fact, I do believe it.
-Ed, that's silly.
-Oh thank God! I'm glad to hear you say that. Why, that's the oldest taboo in the world. Isn't it?
-Maybe. It's up there. What do you think?
-I'm not sure, that's why I ask. Murder is older, maybe. And a few other things.
The data simply isn't available. Gosh, the world is so old. But you're saying it's silly, my dream?
robert dickerson
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50.
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Oedipus Ad Doctorus lll
-Doc, does one ever really get over it? Completely?
-Yes and no.
-What do you mean?
-Yes, but only if you want to. No, if you don't. It's as simple as that. The real question is 'do you want to'? Belief is strangely enabling. With belief, everything. Without belief, nothing.
-Whew! I feel better already.
-Anything else?
-I don't think so.
-OK. Short session. Here's your prescription. See you in a month. Stay well.
-Thanks.
-Oh, Ed-
-Yes, Doctor?
-Have you seen your cousin? Your cousin Orestes?
-Not recently.
-He hasn't been in in awhile. 'Hope he's alright. If you see him, tell him to give me a call.
-Sure will. See ya. And thanks.
-Bye, now.
robert dickerson
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51.
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Prospero To Miranda
But how do you tell the crazies, father?
Oh, you learn to recognize them:
they go around saying
everybody else is crazy.
robert dickerson
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52.
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Sicilian Shower
Ionia vanishes.
daunting no bird
the thick drops fall
sparsely from mountain-gutted cloud
plick
plock. pluck
to hot stone
some gone
before they hit the ground.
shush-hush
sigh the grateful palms
through one blue rift
the sun inserts his lever
green fate
no sweat
from the balustrade
leisurely the women
gather in the clothes.
robert dickerson
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