The smooth sole of your right foot
extends its firm pressure into my back,
syncopates the rhythm of stress-timed muscles,
a karaoke Thai video
echoes the values
of the bland Italian town upstairs,
listless light from provincial Europe
leaks through the shutters, sheds
shadow on your concentrating face,
your expert fingertips
wreak antique expertise
on the abacus of pressure points:
every calculation exact,
every muscular manipulation
carried off with flair.
Restored, I float away to lay
a lingering aroma of oriental oil
among tetchy weekenders on
the delayed Bologna-Turin express.
If you've any comments on his poem, Bryan Murphy would be pleased to hear from you.