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