They speak of your powers
as far away as West 13th Street
– the East Side doesn’t know you.
They say you have the power to heal
with a touch.

I pray, will you use your gift
to cure me of my ails?
I hurt,
and I cannot find the means to cure myself,
not with bandage or pill
or drink or drug.
Nothing fixes me, mistress,
but perhaps you have the capacity to help.

Lay your fingers ‘pon my form, perchance,
and make me better.
Stop the pain.
Cease the distress that causes such sickness.
I have faith in your ability
and you
to work out my woes
and make my difficulties disappear.

I cry
in my soul
and I think that your touch could cure me.
Make it go away.
Relieve me.

Or a hand job would do the trick.