Co-pay for the Wrong Metaphor

The white noise machine outside the door

sounds like a radio caught between stations,

a digital tide designed to keep the floor

from hearing my shaky improvisations.

You told me to practice 'radical acceptance'

while my kitchen sink was vomiting black sludge.

You called the flood a 'growth transcendence'

and looked at me like a merciful judge.

But a pipe doesn't care about my inner child,

and acceptance won't dry out the rot in the wall.

I sat there while the billable minutes piled,

watching you ignore the actual wreck in the hall.