Therapy

Sometimes my physical therapist
pours her blonde Russian soul on me,
and rubs it in with massage cream.

As I lie there, and she works on my shoulder,
she tells me of being 38 and single.
Of her friend, to whom she says:
'You always forget, you did not come to this country for love.
You came here for money. If you wanted love,
you should've stayed in Russia'

She tells me of Russian men being intimidated by her
business-owning success,
and of Americans who are as hollow as a Russian doll --
'the harder you try to get deeper with them, the more layers of hollowness you discover.'
'You think there's depth under that polite have-a-nice-day outer layer?
There isn't.'

She tells me of being a trophy girl to a 70-year-old Greek
with colonoscopies and wrinkles in all the wrong places,
and she tells me of being too wise to want children anymore.

'Young people have children,
because they think it will make them happy. It won't,' she says
with bitter red cranberries appearing in her eyes.

'And if they think kids will help them when they're old --
think again. not in America.
In America they will stick you into a nursing home
and live 300 miles away.'

And so it goes.
Then she says "Time's up, see you next time!" smiles a wide smile,
and marches off to see the next patient.


I know what she means.

I hope I'll never agree.