marriage therapy

mere months away from retiring,
your marriage counselor reluctantly
agrees to take you and your wife on.
she was old. old school. there was old
furniture in her room. faux paintings
of real paintings. you remember the scream
being one. how perfect, you thought.,
as you sat and waited for the door to open
and for her to ask the three of you to step in.
your son, was in tow, talking on his
phone, which wasn't a phone at all but
a rock he had found outside in the parking lot.
what seems to be the problem, she said,
smiling broadly with betty davis red lips
and a set of owl glasses halfway down
her short pug nose.
your wife jumped in first. I hate him, she said.
he's evil and mean and I want out.
she wrote this down, or something along
those lines. your son laughed and said,
mom you so funny. then he set a bowl
of fake fruit on his head, balancing it
with his short arms stuck out like a wire
walker. time me dad.
see if I can do three minutes.
I checked my watched and told him, go.
yes. the therapist said, and what do you
have to say about things? me, you ask,
pointing at your chest. yes, she said,
you. which sounded incriminating.
she's cheating on me, you tell the therapist.
she's a liar, a cheat, she doesn't work,
she's lazy, doesn't cook or clean
and our sex life stinks.
how much time, your son asks, still
balancing the bowl. almost two minutes
you tell him. the pears and apples
wobble in the plate.
I see, the therapist says. well, let's
do a test now. both of you stand up.
now you sir, stand there, close your eyes.
your wife will stand behind you.
let's see if you trust one another
enough to continue on and save this marriage.
bored, your son takes the plate off his
head and pretends once more to talk on
his phone, which is really a rock.
the therapist gives him a sheet of paper
and asks him to make a drawing of
what he thinks his family looks like.
okay, he says and goes to the table.
your wife moves behind, as you shake your
head. now fall back, the therapist says.
let her catch you. trust her.
trust your wife, the love of you life.
but she doesn't catch you, you drop to
the floor, hitting your head on a potted
plant. your son laughs and comes
over to look at you on the floor. dad,
he says. what are you crazy, mom would
never catch you. why did you do that.
he hands the paper to the therapist.
it's a picture of a tornado, black
and swirly with all four of us up in
the air. that's you,
he says to the therapist, pointing
at something that looks like a cow
with glasses on.