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.
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,
and the arrows of those who loved and hated you
Memories rise and fade like steam,
a strange path to forgiveness,
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.