The Leather Couch

Breathe. It’s just for a couple of hours.

What will it be today?

The Leather Couch.

A story of guilty pleasure; Heroin? Sex?

Perhaps just going crazy and stalking an Ex?

My office is your heaven but my hell.

Come in Mrs. Sanders, have a seat.

The Leather Couch.

She caresses the seat ready to reveal all.

She opens her mouth to speak, secrets kept by the wall.

She starts talking but I zone out.

Lost people pay thousands just to sit.

The Leather Couch.

Its powers are overpowering.

Ah! He cheated, as I acted as if I was listening.

I started to scribble on my notepad.

Yes, yes go on.

The Leather couch.

She starts crying and grasping its arm.

Sinking in its cushion she feels no harm.

See I once loved this job, but no more.

It’s tiring, and it has really taken its toll.

The Leather Couch.

It holds proudly every confession, every regret.

The ones after work I always try to forget.

Breathe. It’s just for a couple of hours.

What will it be tomorrow?

The Leather Couch.

It’s the real therapy here.

I am just a bystander in awe but yet in despair.

The poem is about a therapist that fell out of love with his job and believes the leather couch that the clients sit in, is doing the job for him by personifying it.