chainsaw. . .
the chainsaw tends to jam as
my wife’s head is stubborn at times,
but today I succeeded,
I tell the therapist behind an expression of regret,
and a cigarette I five fingered from the ashtray from the previous session.
and the coffee smells like day old coffee grinds
but taste freshly brewed though, lacking sugar, that caramel look.
the therapist asks why I would even dare put a chainsaw to my wife’s head?
I didn’t have bananas in my cornflakes, I admitted without being charged.
So it’s her fault? The therapist assumes.
I tell him that the lady now sitting next to me,
who was sitting next to me earlier out in the lobby,
has been bumming a cigarette from me since day 37,
since it was my wife who suggested I see a therapist to help with my depression.
So it’s her fault, then? The therapist redirects.
I shake my head, bite my lip, and toss the cigarette into my coffee cup;
the cigarette makes a fizzing sound
like the chainsaw now sitting beside my wife’s stubborn head.
I shiver, not because in the manner I killed her in,
but because of the bloody shit I got to go home and clean up!
the therapist scratches his shiny head before taking pity on me.
he refills my placebo pills in a new prescription.
Same time, next week? He says. I nod.
and nothing is resolved, as usual.