How was your week? you ask
As I awkwardly settle in your chair
I’ve got no idea how it was
Don’t even know why I’m here
Something about keeping my slot
This weekly hour that’s mine
Something about being taught
To honor other people’s time
Am I really supposed to talk
About my week, myself, today?
If I shrug and study your rug
Perhaps you’ll just go away
It's been eighty or so times
But I still can’t help the paralysis
That grips me, slows my tongue
When under your analysis
I can’t make sense of my life
Don’t have the words with which to share
The highs (neh), the lows (yeah!) I rode
Since last week when I was here
I’ve waged wars, been lost at sea
Struggled through the thick of a storm
Tried to stay afloat in the present
But the discomfort made me squirm
I’ve swung from the east to the west
Mired in a swamp of confusion
I’ve doubted every word I ever shared
And regarded you like some illusion
I’ve lain inert in a stuporous daze
Couldn’t summon an ounce of energy
And as the visit to you came closer
I was engulfed by waves of anxiety
The tension still has a grip on me
So I hold on tightly to my coat
Wrap my arms around myself
And answer, “It was good,” by rote.