There is a stench in the air

Aged cigarette smoke, maybe

Soaked into ancient walls of oak

Or is it pine?

 

The patter of rain on the thin roof above

Dark figures in frames

One on each wall

What is this place?

 

A single candle illuminates the room

It sits upon a coffee table in the center

Made of teak

I think

 

I can hear a pencil on paper

A face shows in the candlelight

It looks up towards me

“Time’s up.”

The therapist says

Categories: Poetry