Thursday, September 14, 2017


The sign of a good massage, IMHO, is that afterward, I feel no guilt about lingering and lounging, about not hustling to my car to run errands. Such was the case after a recent massage when all my task-orientation genes tried to kick me into gear, but failed. Yay! The pen checking off my to-do list stayed stuck in the Get Massage checkbox for long enough that the Day Spa staff began hovering to see if I was okay. And I think I detected little smiles on their faces.


Post-massage, loose and limber, soothed and smoothed,
I loiter in candlelit Quiet Room till lemon water drains.
Rubber spa slippers slap slowly from beige Quiet Room to beige Waiting Room
to get more lemon water and a cup of hot tea ~
Massage makes me very thirsty.

There I lounge to listen to a flute flutter, and …
… Look at a floating lemon slice that looks like (spinning) wagon wheel,
static as still-life apples.

… Drain my (steaming) hot tea,

… Imagine long brown pillows as (frisky) little dachshunds

…See gingko leaves as (flocking, flying) birds,

… drift away, lose count of lemon water glasses sipped,
no worries.

Day Spa door opens, closes, causes gauze curtains to poof out
but then settle back, still.
I could reach for a coffee table fabulous photo book,
But no.
No doing, just being,

No comments: