why are we here

the therapist

has no clue. she's squished in
her chair like
a fourteen year old
girl
just in from the beach.
flip flops.
her hair in wet disarray.

sure there's
a degree on the wall,
psychology today
on the table. is that a porcelain
figure of
Sigmund freud in the window
or president grant.

I see her pack of
camels.
the ashtray and matches.
an empty quart of rocky
road ice cream
in the trash.
I see the coupons she's
cut out
for total wine.

I calm myself down, wiping
tears away.

she's using a toothpick
when I sit down on the green
leather couch
and says, so,
why are we here to day.

indeed. why?