Need a Massage?

 

Need a Massage?

 

Walls of silence, walls of sound –

overused words, meaningless,

a blend of background noise

meets tortoise trotters –

 

and he always wins

in that story about a race up a hill,

featuring the rabbit, dog and ipis.

 

No – the real walls are in your head.

Lately I felt them,

screaming barriers, claustrophobic,

built somewhere between

terror and panic

 

and that cheese croissant on display:

It’s the same one everyday,

sat flaking in the glass cabinet

but it can’t be, can it?

 

Unless – they’ve sealed it in a vacuum,

but then, what’s the point of it,

what use can it possibly serve?

 

Hyperbole? Well, I guess so – moulting

outside, sat beside

this tortoiseshell cat,

a stray, curled up, shop cornered,

but mounting a campaign for my lap.

 

Careful – she could scratch –

but seemed so beautiful, a comfort,

content to stretch out her back

against my legs. Then, you arrived,

 

Pajero pulled up outside

‘Brands for Less’ – but I’m a mess

masquerading as somewhat dressed:

 

We depart, you speak of your sister:

‘Lori says, I should massage Daddi,

just gentle tonight, You want?’

 

Daddi – her pet name for me,

even though she’s 55, in Davao City,

halfway across the globe from here.

 

Instinct dictates

I should roll my eyes, ‘You hate?’

you reply, stroking thighs, and indicate

as we’re pulling out

across the painted lanes.

 

No. If it’s all the same,

I’ll accept. It’s either greed

or just maybe, I need.