Your office is a little too cold but I guess
You think it’s hard to control my heat
Well order and control are not what I seek
That’s my father and you’ve got
Me analyzing you analyzing me
I never could see how they all fit together
Cybernetics, psychology and society, I mean
I don’t need therapeutic communication to
Correct information or cure me of the disease of
Being me in the winter of 1963
Do you always start seeing residents at 7:00 am
Or are you just trying to get it over with me?
I’m always up and working at this time but
That’s the problem you believe I’m
Not in touch with my feminine instincts
I’m not fidgeting I’m turning a page in my
Notebook so I can have the facts straight when I
Write about this later for a journal or in a
Letter to Betty Friedan who is enraged by my
Incarceration by this problem that has no name
I know what that look means but
You say I talk too much and then
Tell me to be more expressive when it’s
You who needs to put away your books and
Talk to me like I’m a human being
Yes I know your job is to psychoanalyze me
Along with the rest of the New England elite
But what about culture and personality?
I’m familiar with your work but have
You ever bothered to read any of mine?
And why does wanting a career
Make me deviant and obscene?
And maybe you can explain to me how
I checked myself in voluntarily and now
You won’t let me leave?