parlor.
i strip down
to my birthday suit
and lie flat on my back, waiting
for my regular
masseuse, Ashley, to come
in and begin.
but it's not her.
it's a man. a man called Boris,
from Russia.
what the hell, i mumble to myself
as he begins
to dig into my muscles.
my shoulders.
my arms, my neck, my legs.
i groan with pleasure
as he kneads my aches and pains
away.
i ask him about Ashley,
and he says, nyet. she go back to
the country.
her hands too weak.
dang, i say.
are you going to be here next
week?
No comments:
Post a Comment