Leaning back, coccyx curved
into the chair's open palm,
you practice un-knuckling your spine
one wedged vertebra at a time.
You attempt a slow exhalation,
but the air's too quickly sucked out.
Must be the pressure:
You normally avoid
the big picture.
Ever notice
how simple it is
to relax once you've
taken in the view?
Slack-mouthed, you retrace
your dramatic ups and downs,
daring zigzags and artful returns,
wondering out loud - noble
creature that you
are - muttering:
How did I ever survive?
Although, by now, memory fits
like someone else's glove.
A voyeuristic fingertip
explores the intimate
detail without artifice,
curious.
Does this hurt?
How about here?
You can't focus.
You answer
in riddles,
moaning,
grunting,
soon reduced
to naked
truth,
despite
your inclination.
YOU ARE READING
Express, baggage and all...
PoetryObjects in the mirror are closer than they appear... Just when you think you've put something behind you for good, you look back and find it trails you like your very own comet's tail, lighting a path through the dark. Reading through these pages...
