ice cream therapy

with no
clean dishes
or silver ware
you make due
with a wooden
spoon found nestled
in the knife drawer,
curled carefully
alone in the back.
it fits nicely
into the round
bucket of ice
cream that you've
bought to stave
off winter depression.
ice cream
would brighten
your day, but you
are very impatient
because it is
frozen solid like
a rock. with menace
you strike the top
of the unyielding
surface trying
to gouge out enough
to get you started.
just a small
taste of it deliciously
melting on your
warm tongue would
be heaven. but there
is no god, no mercy.
it's too hard
to break loose.
you don't want to
microwave it,
that might be too
risky, so you
fill the sink
up with warm water
and set the bucket
in. then you pace
the room, and wait.
rubbing your hands
together nervously.
you stare out the window
at the frozen stream
behind your house.
the bare trees, surrendered
grey and lean to winter.
a thought crosses
your mind that maybe
this is the week
to go see a therapist.