Saturday, October 04, 2014

A poem …

                         The Rub


The taking off, the laying on of hands,
The rhythm, push, and smooth. The leaning. Thin, 
Desk-knotted shoulders. “No one understands,”
You murmur. “Harder. What a day it’s been.”
I loose the knots, shoulder the eight-hour day,
Breathe edgewise words as warmths meant for your ear.
The gentle suasion of my fingers may
Unfist you, and your guard might disappear,
But as I rub pain out, I urge sleep on,
And what could almost be tilts on the verge:
Between your sleep and pain, I’ve lost and won.
Your body on my hands . . . that want to purge
The migraine from your soul. Relax. Breathe deep.
Crying, “I can’t, I can’t,” you fall asleep.

— John Timpane

3 comments:

  1. Ah, how intriguing
    and suggestive this sonnet
    is when I read it

    ReplyDelete
  2. Anonymous2:19 PM

    140
    syllables: that's all you get
    and that ain't a lot

    ReplyDelete
  3. Ever read Shakespeare's?

    ReplyDelete