a final pay-per-view

 

Eclectic recollections on the scalp masseuse,

according to the sendoff of her clients. 

 

Said one: she tried to get inside my brain, 

the matters grey and wending. Being not my therapist, 

I wouldn’t let her in, but watched her through my windows.

 

Said another: saved me from a plague of lice,

she did, and taught me how to nip them at the nit—

 

Another: that really makes me sick! And then she’d delve

her ungloved hands into the coif of maybe me an hour later.

 

Riposte: it would give your naked soul more dignity.

 

The first: her job was but to knead our knotted frets away,

not to bake our self-esteem like some soufflé. To each

her own, I tend to say, but I was only there to—

 

Go away! Your sanctimony does not translate well.

 

                        And neither does the way you say ‘her ungloved hands’,

                        as if she were a Harijan. And by your surly squint

                        I gather that you don’t know what I mean.

 

                                                An unheard voice: I know what you mean. And yes,

                                                her lack of filter is a reason why I came.

            

            That sounds unprofessional: families, even friends,

            need filters. A lack of trust builds trust.

 

                                                Says your therapist? 

 

                        Or the molding of your windowsill?

 

                                    Again, you make me sick. I just came to say goodbye to 

                                    someone sometimes creepy, if mostly in my mind.

 

                                                Even now, she’s smiling like that movie Smile.

 

Indeed, the scalp masseuse was pleased

with how this went, having brought

these heads together for a final pay-per-view.

 

Daniel Martin Vold Lamken (2022)