you're crazy

you buy a psychology
book because you want to
understand people,
your lunatic family
for instance,
your loved ones, to
understand yourself,
why you need to shut
all the dresser drawers
before you go to sleep
with no clothes
sticking out. you want
to find out what makes
people do what they
do, behave the way
they behave. you
burrow into the writings
of jung and freud,
james and gladwell,
kinsey and skinner,
each having their say.
it's quite depressing
you think, taking a
break and going to
the kitchen to carefully
cut a lime to drop into
your tonic and Tanqueray.
standing over
the kitchen sink,
staring out to
the parking lot you see
the woman next door
cutting a perfect
path around her car
from the snow. sweeping
gently each flake
off the windshield.
you see her lips moving,
counting the strokes,
again and again
as the snow
keeps falling.