The Problem...

The problem is that people are tired.

They sit in the chair across from me

and tell me they are fine

before telling me they are not fine.

They are tired of worrying about money.

They are tired of pretending their marriage is working.

They are tired of carrying memories they did not ask for.

Some of them apologise for crying.

Some of them apologise for not crying.

Many of them apologise for taking up time.

I tell them they are allowed to be here.

The work I do is simple to describe.

People come in.

They tell the truth in small pieces.

We talk about what is happening in their lives.

Sometimes they learn something new about themselves.

Sometimes they do not.

I do not solve their lives.

I listen to them carefully.

I ask questions.

I try to help them think clearly.

Outside my office, there are chickens making noise,

dogs waiting for attention,

and a child sometimes drawing at the table.

Life continues while people talk.

The concern of this poem is not abstract.

People are struggling.

They want relief.

They want rest.

They want someone to hear them without judgment.

That is the concern.

And that is the work.