Ragged

‘Your fingers are white,’ she said.
‘It’s cold outside,’ he said, leaned back
In the new chair on the wood floor
She’d polished the day before. ‘An irrelevance.’
He didn’t tell her he’d lost the feeling in one
Of them.

‘It could be rage and impatience, not
Anxiety, that make you feel so ragged,’
She says, back in the present now, all these
Weeks later, after they’ve danced around
His perceived inadequacies and pains.
‘That could be your answer.’

‘Are there any answers?’ he says, fingers
Now tapping on the armrests. The numbness
In the dead one persists. ‘Isn’t that why
You’re here, for answers?’ Her hair falls
Across her face for another uncountable time.
‘Isn’t that what you want from therapy?’

‘None of us know what we really want,’
He whispers, and leans forward.
‘You’re right.’ She stretches her legs.
‘Time to finish.’

R 25/11/2023 18:42