There is a quiet room facing south on the fourth floor of an old brick
loft building in TriBeCa. Outside, beyond double-hung windows,
there resides the clatter of downtown, a zinger of a view of
the Woolworth Building, and below, in shadow,
a busy gym with rows of New Yorkers hurrying to
stay apace with speeding treadmills.
Inside the quiet room, at the foot of a chair,
a little terrier snoozes and two people,
sometimes three or more, sit, talk, and listen –
conducting the mysterious discipline
of psychotherapy.

Like Freud’s office, mine is in my home.
It contains the tools of my trade:
two chairs, a couch, an
inclination to listen,
a philosophy of respect
and a desire to understand.
If you care to, we can devote
time here together to work that might
change both our lives.