bike-lane babushka vs. therapy

Bike-Lane Babushka vs. Therapy

While I’m bitter as eggplant

the brave babushka is in the bike lane.

Bundled on her motorcart.

 

Her situation so sad

yet smiling to herself.

A secret I wish I had.

 

The pressure.

Days frivolously numbered

22,10 then 22 again.

Knocking me over in the process.

An invisible bump to be checked.

 

Hand releases umbrella

before grasping it again.

Foot catches a soggy box

dragged along a few paces.

 

It’s the middle or the beginning

not the end

the therapist says.

With turtle eyes

a pinch too far apart

inching her way to my heart.

 

But therapists need therapists too

she tells me

never to say ‘should’ and to always avoid ‘always’.

Skills to be utilized else of where.

 

Therapists need nice comments

on their sweaters.

Pointless musings

on the weather.

Therapists say they’re not self-assured

to coax you into seeing yourself as ‘normal’.

 

I tell her some crayfish are blue.

She says some corals grow only one centimetre a year.

Uncertainty remains a pressing issue

so she dumps me.

 

I dream of the babushka

hit by a bus.

 

Then boxes upon boxes

tumbling from above.

Stacked continually on top of each other

as things tend to occur.

 

Corrugated.

Card bored-ed.

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