what kind of tree would you be
my therapist asks me,
tapping her pen on her chin.
i look at my watch.
i don't want to be a tree.
but if you were, if you had to
be a tree, choose one,
she says,
choose the one that you'd
most likely pick to be you.
i don't know.
a big tree, i guess.
can you be more specific.
describe the tree for me.
i think for a moment
looking out the window at
some lame trees dying
in the median strip along
the highway.
a shady tree. i tell her,
a tree where people
could come and lie under
in the shade and take a nap
without any interference.
maybe people could eat
their picnic lunch under my tree.
a tree with big leaves and no sap.
but they couldn't bring their dogs
with them.
you know how dogs are when they're
around a tree.
she says, hmm. i see.
so, an oak, an elm, a maple?
whatever, i tell her. just a big
giant tree with leaves.
okay, okay, no need to raise
your voice and get angry.
i'm not angry. i just think it's
a stupid question.
oh, and by the way, you have
ink on your chin.
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