RDW's poems

8- The Behaviourist

Ah, Mrs M.  Do take a chair. Sit still.
Don’t rub your hands.  I said, don’t rub your hands!
Well, you were warned.  It’s just a thrill,
a small electric charge.  The body stands

far more than that – as I should know.  No, no
it’s nothing dangerous – but we can make
you stop this rubbing, or can make you go
on once again.  We have control.  We break

your patterns, and create them new.  Good news.
It means that we have ways to make you sleep.
We deal with what is real, not with your views.
We change your acts; your so-called thoughts you keep.

And we will both be spared the rigmarole
of an examination of your soul.



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