At the end of my tenth session of the day
I gather the crinkling handles of the bag
lining my office trashcan and lift.
The bottom catches on the rattan basket,
a small hole dripping something sinister
gently on the carpet.
My client’s eyes drift from the contents
to the splish-splash,
to my gaze and back again,
fear creeping between their brow.
Seven empty Sugar-Free Redbull corpses 
clink against a tin of Tuna To-Go.
I want to say, “Don’t worry.”
I want to say, “Not FDA recommended.”
I want to say, “Long day.”
I want to say, “Your therapist has a therapist.”
I use the toe of my shoe to rub
the seeping substance in
to the thick fibers of the flooring.
I flick the light switch. 
I lock the door behind us as we drift to the hall
then the parking lot.
I smile, “Have a wonderful weekend,” 
as I power walk to the dumpster out back.
The last sip of caffeinated liquid dribbles on my pants.
I finally get in my car to go home
to take my Ambien and eat a microwave dinner
if it doesn’t take too long to heat up.
Eager to watch my true crime while I doom scroll online
until it’s Monday again and I’m masked enough
and Vyvansed and energy-drunk to the Gods.
Summer heat clinging to my glasses,
I lick the fog off the lenses
with my lapping, feral tongue.
“Siri, call Mom on speaker phone.”
I reverse from my parking spot
into a bush.