Poem: Sofa Work.

Sofa Work

I know exactly where I am broken,
and why,
and what triggers the rocks in my stomach,
and why,
and all the good work on couches and dimly lit rooms
helps, saves me
from the crippling dark, from its lingering danger,
but in the moment?
The rocks live. Heavy. Hard. And painful.

About this poem

A poem about therapy (which I am evangelical about), and what it does and does not do.

Tom

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