Thoughts upon Quitting Counseling

Plaid is my friend like
my therapist was.
Who, like my now-estranged husband, was
what he called “perceptive.”
And who, like my estranged husband, noticed
that the grid on my pink and white plaid that I bought for five
dollars at Freddie’s end of spring sale
bowed like the lines in the optical-illusions newspaper editors use
for space-fillers.

She would ask me: “Do you feel overweight today? You act uncomfortable.”
And he would ask me: “Why don’t you take off that (insert curse word here)?
“You look like you’re having triplets tomorrow.”
And I
would ask him if he wanted Tabasco for his scrambled eggs.
.
I would sit a foot and a half from her office door,
(directly opposite a globe-shaped lamp)
watching her roll a blue pen between her
thumbs.
And she would say:
“As your friend, I wonder if you’d feel more confident
if you wore clothing that flattered you more.”
And I would mumble
something that sounded indecent,
–hoping to jolt her,
but meeting each time empty,
dead eyes.

Then I
–ever adept at air traffic control –
would direct her
curiosity to my anger issues
or my childhood.
Because anything seemed pleasant compared
to discussing
the relationship tension between my shirt and I.

Line count: 34