The psychiatrist asks me,

Have you experienced any euphoria lately?

And I say yes, thinking of Game 6 and

watching Yordan’s home run

soar over the fucking batter’s eye,

hell, over the moon. But I had to hold

my screams on the tip of my vocal cords,

because we had guests over,

and my goal that week was to be

courteous and kind to others,

so in real life, I was saying my good

byes and thank yous, and shaking

hands, but on the inside, a rocket

took off from my heart, and my muscles

were a loaded spring ready to launch

myself through the ceiling, and I saw

the fans on TV deliriously drunk

on beer and happiness. But I keep

quiet; I just say yes, and that is all I say

because it is eleven o’clock at night,

and I’ve been in the hospital for seven

hours, so to save time, and myself,

I just keep saying yes until

the psychiatrist asks her next question.