My therapist was created by murdered trees,
rolled and cut into sheets, stamped with
inked lines that guide our conversations.

He wields a metal spine, curled tight,
wrapped around my thoughts in attempt
to hold our sessions in one place.

I create my therapy sessions with plastic
tubes around thin sticks of led, topped
with a rubber mistakes eraser.

We make appointments daily, accumulating
emotions, finding their meanings, and the
outcome always seems to be poetry.