|
Ode to My Massage Therapist
to whomever is listening to the sighs
of silver sands and each full moon
the crinkle of cellophane and dragonfly wings
to whomever has seen the fireglow
of campfires and distant city lights atop the hills
I find myself marking off the days on my calendar
just three more until my scheduled appointment
I sit astride the chair placing my face in the napkin
trying to relax as the CD plays soothing ocean sounds
waves crashing on the shore and gulls that call my name
to whomever warms the oil in well trained hands
working his magic on my arms fingers neck and back
a voice that makes me wonder if he is a poet
making wild suggestions that I put on the boxing gloves
join a gym and get to know my body better
but that is so completely out of character for me
that my dear is exactly the point I was making
you have to stretch to grow
| 
