Sunday, May 31, 2026

When I’m crooked

 

When I’m crooked

I go to Doctor Ellen,
lie on my back.
She places a fist 
under my spine, 
leans over me 
with ample breast 
pressing mine, 
tells me to take 
a deep breath— 

then bounces me 
chest to chest. 
Pistons groan, pulled 
from rusty crankcase.
Gears mesh, engage.
Fog of my mind clears
as old Doctor Ellen,
suddenly gorgeous
in a bolt of sunshine, says 
Bones control our brains.

It is therapy 
not love 
but not different. 

…..

First published in Verse-Virtual. Thank you editor Jim Lewis
Image from NY Public Library via unsplash

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