I sat at my desk in the late afternoon, 

as the moon began to show 

a fresh new bite, numbering my mistakes 

in the age of curated self-reflection. 

All day entertainments raged 

bioluminescent, shimmering 

Plutonian emeralds and neon blues, 

fat raindrops shot into algae 

in seas throughout the universe. 

Now I had an hour free. No excuses. 

Top of my list, I wrote: 

1. The costly need for a therapist. 

Seeing this, my therapist shut her eyes 

and black leather-bound notebook, 

and leapt in silent protest into oblivion 

from the shame of human history—

bidding farewell to its bumf and bills 

and gibberish—rag-dolling through space-time 

until she awoke in her dung beetle body. 

Lo, how she rolls in blissful ignorance, free 

from the weight of needing to ask if 

anything matters beyond this task.