She was a coat of arms <br />seasoned for the job -- tough <br />and polished like tortoise shell. <br />When the women were tougher, <br />she'd tuck her advice-giving head <br />back against the executive chair, <br />let them try to fluff bent feathers, <br />watch them falling to their feet. <br />Then, her little turtle arms <br />would stretch out across the desk; <br />try to float a form -- <br />a restraining order, maybe <br />a list of early warning signs -- <br />but they'd keep on sleeping, sleep <br />hard through the sessions she'd spend <br />blowing on plastic ships, paper sails <br />rarely reaching port, and they would cry <br />like little children watching helpless, <br />dazed as she sunk their dreamboats, <br />sat on them, no coming up for air. <br />And perhaps she'd think of the little turtles <br />we'd kept confined to bathtubs as kids, <br />or of the public safety commercials <br />telling mother how, if she turned her back, <br />we could fall to sleep, slide and drown <br />in barely an inch of sitting water.<br /><br />C.J. Sage<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/crisis-counselor/
