Therapy Poem by Jan Oskar Hansen

The therapy

Once I drove from the south to the North of Portugal
with a sojourn into Spain, long enough to see how
different the two countries are made me anti-unipolar.
I was driving around before the creation of motorways
and mobile phones made driving into a dull discourse.
A puncture in the middle of nowhere caused a problem
I had a puncture, but was save by a man on his tractor
saved me from utter failure.
I had the dog with me on the journey dogs are patient
don't fiddle with the radio and want to stop for coffee
nor do they suggest another, better route to take.
A dog waits till you stop at a nice place, woods for it to
run around smelling things, and back in the car they sleep.
Villages made of the landscape hewn from stones
and forgotten are strewn around some on top of a hill.
Others are deep in a valley; flowers by every door make
houses look prettier.
The villages also have in common a café/bar/shop were
a traveller can get a beer, a bit to eat and rooms to let
if not officially (tax) best of all, people like you.
After a week of driving around overcoming a failed love
an affair, cured, and the dog and I went home.