My therapist sends an email
Her house is for sale.
The selling price: 200K! And not only that, a fresh loaf of bread for the buyer, each day.
I get up from my computer and go.
I’ve always dreamed of owning a house
just like hers. Hers, in fact, would do just fine.
I walk the boundaries of her land, peek into windows,
see her shadowed inside. I do not knock or ring. Don’t want to be seen.
My therapist, wearing a straw sun hat, comes out the front door,
points to the men threshing on the front lawn. (How had I missed this?)
There’s a lot of land here. A lot to maintain. It’s far from my work.
It’s far from my friends. But I always wanted it. So shouldn’t I still?
“Too much work,” my therapist says … as always, putting in words what I know but don’t know.
She walks across the road into the fields, trips and falls.
I pretend not to see.