“Not that kind of guy” (A post-Well Spa massage poem; as overheard)
“Not that kind of guy”
I don’t normally do this.
Any other
Thursday afternoon
this time of year
I’m in the office
until the sky is dark
walking to my car.
The glass of champagne
-well it was included.
Part of a gift certificate
my wife bought for me.
Birthday present.
I just came up from downstairs,
they have a massage parlor.
It’s not my kind of thing
but I had to use it
or her feelings would be hurt
and we would have wasted
all that money.
She’s always telling me
I should take some time away,
relax more.
Go on a trip.
I suppose we could go somewhere
for a week or two. Somewhere nice.
“Let the employees take care of it
-that’s why you hired them!”
she likes to say.
My wife comes downtown here
to get these massages
and they do things to her hair,
treatments on her skin.
-You ever had one of those facials?
I can’t believe how smooth my face feels,
like a bare ass baby.
Reminds me of our firstborn.
‘Course she’s all grown up now.
Those massages,
I’ve never had one before, always thought
that stuff isn’t for me.
I’m not that kind of guy.
You know what I mean, I…
I didn’t even catch your name, I apologize,
here I am
talking your ear off
like a space cadet.
If you tried one of those massages downstairs,
you’d know what I mean,
they have showers with something like…
4 or 5 jets of water
spraying all over your body.
All at once!
Who thinks of that?
Look at this. Unbelievable.
A glass of champagne.
A glass of champagne in the
middle of the afternoon?
The guys at the shop
would never believe it.
I’m glad they include it
with the massage
because I never would have
sat down here
and ordered one.
Now I understand it-
why she comes here all the time.
Maybe we should take a trip soon,
somewhere warm.
Somewhere with a beach, maybe on an island.
One where you can ride around on
those little motor scooters.
Pardon me, Bartender?
May I have another?
