the 2:15 appointment

side by side on sticky vinyl chairs

we face a therapist who

I can’t help but notice is half my age

her breasts still perky

her face accutane-cleared

and rosey

 

much like her personality

 

I have quit.

I am done.

 

but this man and I have made a vow

so I will sit here

sweaty palms, the nervous tapping of my feet

I will listen

as he beats himself up in front of me

blames everything on pessimism and loss

shedding weaknesses like last year’s skin

 

oh, and there she sits

nodding and rewarding

how brave he is to be so open! she coddles and coos

 

what does she know of hard scrubbed love?

the kind that lasts way past forgivenesses?

the wounds that leave permanent scars?

the knees that no longer bend?

the bed that stays empty longer and longer?

 

I have quit.

I am done.

 

but a promise is a promise

and I listen with half closed ears

while picking stuffing out of the cut

made, I imagine, by some other wounded lover

I don’t really notice when it is my turn to talk

 

this is it

two pairs of glistening eyes pleading for me to

throw my arms around his hang-dog neck

and promise again what I promised before

 

I am all out of words

tired of repeating myself in an endless loop.

 

behind miss bright eyes’ right shoulder is

a stain on the wall-

much like blood.

I consider that instead.

I talk on and on about whether I think that

it could be a mosquito or a splatter

from a busted nose?

a gun shot?

what kind?

does she know the name of the therapist

who must of come before her?

 

he will finally stand up

shake the pretty lady’s hand

and help me to my feet

again

 

ignoring my strained laughter

and how I quit.