In a lavender fog
at Glade Spring Spa
I was halfway through
a $2 a minute massage
when an unknown
beneath my shoulders
released and I started
to sob in the face cradle.
It was money
and being 50
and finally having
a job again: all the shame
I had swallowed selling
myself back from the red.
The masseuse said she
sensed something moving.
I sat in the recovery room,
chamomile tea steeping,
flush in a fluffy robe,
bereft in winter sun.
Hot pools beckoned,
the sauna, the steam:
treatments to forget
my back in the game.