Ode to a Hydromassage
Seven minutes in heaven used to mean something very, very different.
I lay on the bed, hearkening back to a time
when boys were dark, mysterious creatures
who had to be coerced into dark, mysterious places like the hall closet--never big enough--
by means of a silly bottle game
the result of which was generally sitting blushing but stonefaced
in opposite corners of the dark
But now my seven minutes in heaven comes
at the end of a long workout
seven minutes of myself
seven minutes of alone
seven minutes of eyes closed, muscles loosened, mind placid
The Adult World spins me around like an empty soda bottle at the will of a 14-year-old
trying his damnedest to make it land on Elizabeth
--the bottle has no say in the matter.
Don't get me wrong,
I still love my seven minutes in the dark mystery of two bodies
but I've learned to cherish
my seven minutes in the dark pleasantry
of one.
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