The Massage

Photo by Ale Romo

Naked, flat on my stomach,

     Face down in a hole.

Arms at my sides,

     Anticipating the goal

Of relaxation and tensions released

            As I hear soothing sounds of flutes for more peace.

Soon strong hands lather oil on my bare back,

    Then work hard to leave thumbprints -

                        An inevitable track.

As the muscles are worked and manipulated on cue,

            The sighs leave my mouth, involuntary and true,

I felt I was melting into a big pool of blubber

            As my arms, hands and fingers were kneaded like rubber

Then my thighs, calves and feet were eased of their stress

            And the massage of each little toe felt the best, I confess.

Time to roll over, scoot down from the hole,

            My head and face then wrapped like a mole 

With a soft cotton scarf used as a cover,

My mouth and nose free so as not to smother. 

            And my near-sleep status that I tried to attain,

Was soon helped by the sound of thunder and rain.

            Was it real or a soundtrack? I did not know.

I would see soon enough when moister on windows would show

            The difference between reality and a listening device.

But it didn’t really matter, was my inner advice,

For it was the result of drowsiness obtained by such care

            Of massaging my body to displace heaviness with air.

The lighter aspect of my Being was feeling so fine

            I wanted to get home to continue to recline

To sleep a slumber of freedom from stress

            That my Masseuse had miraculously repressed.

And so next time I  start to feel the tensions of strife,

            I will remember that a good massage brings back normalcy

to life.