Poem: Cheaper than Therapy

The Reluctant Panther_resize

Cheaper Than Therapy

A long, hot, soaking bath.
A cold bourbon with ice,
two fingers worth, carefully measured.
Your legs, a bit too long, hang over the edge of the tub.

Music plays.
You may be the only person you know
who invests in a stereo for your bathroom.
Tonight, it is blues, silky smooth,

reminding you of your father,
that monotonal lover of music
who left you loving music
you hated as a child.

Your body carries scars
and in the hot water, they turn red and angry.
If it mattered,
you could name each one, but

they matter less than the ones unseen,
both self-inflicted
and the arrows of those who loved and hated you
most.

Memories rise and fade like steam,
a strange path to forgiveness,
but cheaper
than therapy.

About this poem.

I am actually an evangelist for good therapy. I know what it can do for us broken folk. But a nice hot bath is not the worst temporary fix.

The picture was taken at The Reluctant Panther, a B&B Inn in Manchester, Vermont.

Tom

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