Therapy

There is a brotherhood forged
in those fourteen steps from my
therapist’s office to the waiting area,
between me and the other man I meet
without a word. Matt, let’s call him,
or Dave, he looks like a Dave —
his thinning hair, fading sweatshirt,
and tired eyes betray a heart touched
by sorrow (and a wallet touched by
therapy bills). Where among the
bursting shells of existence we
match a glance and his eyes ask,
you too? With an exhale I
answer, you too?

Sometimes when it’s my turn to wait,
I let my mind out the open window,
and as it drifts on a honey breeze,
it imagines that somewhere out there
is a kind of therapy heaven. Where all
the traumas are resolved, the wounds
healed, hearts strong, and we are well.
Dave sees me coming, and we run into
one of those man hugs, but without the
back pats that disclose we are Still
Tough Guys, because here, we aren’t.
We just know now that we
aren’t alone.

Photo by Martin Péchy on Unsplash