He considered himself most fortunate to have found
a place where he could comfortably study and analyze
the peculiar curiosities of human nature.
The room was decorated in all the cliches
of impressive psychiatric offices.
Well concealed, the tiny mouse sat quietly observing
and studiously noting minute details
of human actions and reactions to the varied stimuli
of a continuous flow of words and gestures.
People moved into, around, and out of the busy office
like scheduled storms in varying stages of intensity.
He peered into the heavily burdened caseload of patients
who came and went, some with neuroses or psychoses
diagnosed, misdiagnosed, or inventively imagined.
Taking profound interest in the intimate revelations,
he silently witnessed the mental and emotional
vivisection of troubled human lives.
He observed the cautious procedures
operating on human hearts and minds—
the patient, searching probes into memories and desires.
He recognized the danger and despair of deepest cuts—
the help and hope of healings sometimes sighted.
Despite his respect for the profession,
th little mouse wondered if all the world’s visionaries,
saints, prophets, and ‘just plain folk’
conversant with God throughout history
would be diagnosed as mentally ill,
as delusional or egomaniacs at best.
With serious amusement, he considered
how they’d probably be judged on the modern couch-altar
across from all those authoritative diplomas
of today’s Scientific Man…
April,1992 revised May, 2004 February, 2006
Flowerpoet 