on the couch

on the plaid
uncomfortable
couch for an hour
with beth, she
charges a mere
hundred and ten
dollars, but she
gives it all she
has. she is kind
and gentle,
compassionate
and yet will give
you a good
spanking when
you need it, when
she thinks you
deserve it. there
are old pictures
on the wall,
behind the couch,
the kind your mother
might have, charcoal
sketches of dogs
and windmills. a
few country mice,
stuffed with straw
are on the shelf.
smiling. and there
is a framed
copy of her degree
under glass near a
window that shows
the highway down
below. there is a walmart
in the distance
already lit up for
christmas, the mouth
of it's white doors
open wide for business.
a blue vase of plastic
flowers bent with dust
sits in the corner. they
almost resemble daffodils
leaning towards
sunlight. there are
boxes of tissues
to the left and right,
at arm's reach in
case you need them.
it is not a very
pleasant place
to be with beth, and
the overhead lights,
old neon, flickering
beneath the thin
vinyl shield of a
dropped ceiling
gives shadowy movement
to the room. but beth
is a good listener,
she doesn't lead
or want you to follow,
she wants you to
be truthful, to tell
all, to come clean.
it's the only way she
can help you. make
you whole again, and
it's working. she's
giving you a good
solid hour and making
you sweat.