I Can Help You

The Russian healer, who once kissed me in a New York restaurant bathroom, pulls me aside after meditation class and tells me I am broken, My voice and words, Lift and fall, halt and rush, Peppered with question marks or blank doubt, When I debated another student that Psychotherapy can help people as much as numerology Apparently, I am driving down the road of life, Without a map or GPS, I am lost and tripping over myself, Wandering in infinite circles, But, HE CAN HELP ME, By offering affirmations, meditations, Hands-on healing where he channels Godly Light and goodness that can glue, sew, nail My fractured soul, low self-esteem, inconstant faith Back together (for a fee of $125 per session). Maybe he can, I see the earnestness of his sky blue eyes Illuminated by the street light overhead. And, if I believe, truly surrender, It could possibly work. I nod and listen and question, and then tell him I have to meet someone for dinner, Walking away, I ponder how my psyche can be so shattered When I am starting to feel whole.