Therapy Room

Surrounded

By four ear-like walls

I sit in my chair

At my clinic

Like an old phonograph

Recording grief in each session

Tuning them all into songs

In my head

−      Sometimes sad

−      Sometimes hopeful

At the end of every week

I collect enough songs

To play an orchestra

Or compose symphonies

Ah!

But then

There are songs

That come from you

And I can’t help but play them

Over and over again

At the end of every songful day.