Backs ‘a bunched by work’s hard knocks

Bayed like broken boats in docks

(“Cowboy Junkies” on the box)

Wait for hands that heal.

Traps and rhomboids stiff as stone

Turn to butter on the bone

Only pubis left alone

By the hands that heal.

Deftly are the parts made whole

With touch to soothe the very soul

All the world is headrest hole

Under hands that heal.

Music closes with a click

Session ends with aura flick

Far too soon and way too quick

Leave the hands that heal.

Lighter twenty bucks plus tip

Water from a cup to sip

Farewell handshake final grip

From the hands that heal.

Now the homeward path to seek

Feeling mighty and yet meek

Booked to be back by next week

For the hands that heal.

John Adamson

December 1999