Silence in Therapy

I wish her place were just a little messy

So I could see just what I need to clean

And if she’d tilt her head a little more

When sipping from her mug of earl grey tea,

I could lean over to my left and knock

The plastic vase of purple, blue, and smooth

Clear stones off of the otherwise dark, old

And empty table, without her seeing

My clear intention. My heart would bounce

Just like the stones— and I would watch where each

Small rock would fall, disorder fueling my

Disorder— I would fall then to the floor

And count each one, there’d be thirteen purple

And sixteen blue— or five full sets of three

With one leftover still. And thirty-three

Clear stones. At least I would have time to sort

And separate before she turned and asked

Me just what makes me feel such comfort

In counting— I would then respond by placing

Each stone back in the vase— by only touching

Them with the pads of my right thumb and my

Fore finger— now the sound of each one dropping

Could drown her out and when the three full layers

Felt right, I would then place the vase back in

Its place— to knock it over once again.

For in perfection, it could not be perfect.