The Therapist

She walks into the therapist's office.
And sees him, seeing her.
Eyes move up from legs to pause at breasts,
before meeting eyes.
Trust gets pulled off the table.
Sitting far less comfortable now,
squirming, attention diverting
on the couch her eyes suddenly become clear,
crystal clear balls, manifestations of injury.
And a story unfolds from within.

A different man is staring down now,
looking for a place to stick his folded dollar bill.
Any orifice will do in belligerent drunkenness.
The ultimate axis upon which this man turns
shows blatantly on his face with no inhibition.
With obtuse persistence he will try a thousand
times to fit a paper rectangle into a round flesh hole.

As the woman excuses herself,
the therapist gets up to lock the door.
He doesn't come out for lunch.
Only sits there at his desk looking into a mirror.
Wondering if he's ever seen that face before.