In good hands

Oh the long dreadful week drags its lame leg

Behind me in unsteady rhythm into the weekend

And inflicts a throbbing behind my eyes as I 

Close them and surrender, set adrift upon the 

Massage table, face down and shadowless. 

I feel the masseur comb her small but sure fists 

Through each tendon and their cusps with joints 

Through sore muscles that protest and kick back

With the energy of a dead fish shocked to life.

The pain is relief in the next few days, so I stay

At the mercy of those relentless hands that 

Pick at each aching slab with the determination

Of pulling apart the morsels of sweet flesh 

From the cage of crab shell, and with the care of 

Laying the extracted meat neatly beside the 

Skeleton gently dissembled and neatly hollowed out.

I am a taxidermy splayed and made aware

Of the space within the contours of my body,

Until I tip beyond that relief and into the abyss

Of an unforgiving nap, the kind that leaves behind

Imprints of towel creases on skin and I am 

Nothing but pliable dough. I awaken 

From the depths of exhaustion with a couple of 

Self-satisfied slaps on my back as the masseur

Retreats and I prop myself up, parched, tasting the 

Humidity of my body between my teeth and lips

As I pass my tongue through the seam to 

Unstick them, as though I had a satisfying feast.

Such is the relief from fatigue, vulgar and bodily,

And one must marvel at the swiftness the body

Forgets as it wrings itself through yet 

Another cycle another week of existence.