In the Presence of Greatness

Sigmund Freud is on my wall.
I lie here on the couch in fading light and see him,
dark suit, watch chain,
head tilted slightly to his right,
head resting on his hand,
fingers splayed,
arm at ninety degree bend.

There is nothing unusual about a picture of Sigmund Freud,
except, if I turn on the light,
the picture will be Hydrangeas in a Vase.

So, with a man of such renown,
not wanting to waste opportunity,
I tell him things,
a one-sided therapy--
he never speaks,
just nods a little,
flexes his fingers,
raises an eyebrow,
or two.

Perfect analyst.
No disturbing questions.
No probing.
Just quiet listening,
allowing me my own breakthroughs.

Tomorrow, I hope to get the light just right,
because, if I squint, he looks like Ulysses S. Grant,
and I want to talk War and Politics.