by Angus Grieve-Smith
She bites her nails.
Keep going, gotta keep busy.
Who knows what she's running from.
Exotic, athletic, she does
Until the pressure of my fingertips
Puts gentle slack into the cords in her neck.
My hands float over her panther's back,
Smoothing the knotted muscles.
Down, demon Tension! Yield to your master!
Her hands lie quietly in mine
And she sighs contentedly
As the Greyhound moves on.
March 29, 1993