At Home After Dinner

The Interloper and Courtney

go out for ice cream

and the soothing sound

of a harp glissando

battles thoughts

in my

propeller brain.

Mom’s recovered enough

to lift her arms—

her music slides up

the staircase once again

the sound track to my homework.

Tomorrow I have

6 a.m. wrestling, AP Bio test,

quiz on the first act of Hamlet,

after-school conditioning,

endless homework.

Whirling brain gets stuck

on princess dream

and won’t come loose

on girlfriend.

Not gay.

Then what?

Maybe lots of guys dream

of being turned into girls?

For some reason

I’ve never asked Dr. Andrews.

(He’s not big on talk therapy.

Just the same questions.

     “Suicidal thoughts? Tendencies?

     No? Here’s your scrip.”)

Prescriber of Zoloft.

Reliever of paternal anxiety.

Dad:

    “Hey, buddy, you seem down,

    a doctor can help with that.”

Fulfiller of court-ordered

maternal duty.

Mom:

      “I don’t know if James thinks

      Brendan’s really depressed, or if

      he’s just trying to make things harder.”

Voilà! My twice-yearly visit to the shrink

mollifies one and absolves the other.

Because my busy brain

uncertain moods

ulcerative anxiety

and general malaise

are my own fault.            Right?

I toss aside the calculator

and grab my MacBook,

(a bribe from

the Interloper)

Start to type

Dreams of being a girl.

My fingers hesitate,

I swallow.

Type

Want to be a girl

instead.

Links pop up

and I see the word

“transsexual.”