The Occupational Therapist

You call yourself a therapist,
Yet you watch me,
With a Policeman’s eye.

You take down notes
And ask questions
But hear nothing that I say.

How can you
Describe yourself as a therapist
When you’re no more than a form-filler.

Where’s the occupation
In your occupation
I want to scream.

But I keep quiet
While you tick one box
After another.

And at the end
You say:
What type of cancer was it.

You call yourself a therapist
Yet you can’t even read,
My consultant’s letter.

And where’s the occupation
In your occupation,
When all you are is a fucking apparatchik.

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