Queen Anne’s Lace

My therapist looked over her glasses.

‘I hate it when you say that nobody cares

if you live or die when I, for one, am

quite excited by the idea of you dying.’

I stared at her desk bouquet of Queen Anne’s lace,

wondering when we would talk about drinking.

How happy I was to know I’d leave there,

go to my pub and tell jokes to Cakeface.

I told her about the walks in the mall,

how happy I was just to sit and read –

except reading Frank Norris, of course –

I mean, who on earth could be happy then?

‘Why are you telling me this?’ she said,

tacking back to more analytical words.

‘No matter how devoted to my job,

I would never read one of your books’!