Monday, February 6, 2012

Three Poems


Ramble on, talk, banter,
pander with candor as you trim.

The barbershop is us;
my mother, and my brother, and
another, and another.

My mother, clearly weary,
watches her Rapunzel bundle
land in angles on the floor.

Ding dong, hair gone.
The barber says to us
"Sleep creeps, rest now,"
and slowly starts to sweep.


I see myself in the bathroom mirror,
pink and smooth as a baby, naked
as a sphynx and just as old. I'm cold
and shaking, quietly crying.

The doctor said it was more than likely
that I would end up like this.
They said I'd no longer be Rapunzel;
they didn't tell me I'd be an ogre.

It fell out like dead leaves fall
off an aging tree. It landed everywhere
and wherever it landed it stayed,
as though it might take root.

I see myself in the bathroom mirror;
smooth as a baby, cold and shaking,
naked and crying.


Bill feels a chill, a thrill
if you will, as he spies
a customer in the lot.

Bill, in his tweed blazer,
stands to adjust his tie
and his smile. Both are

He grabs his sunglasses,
licks a spot off his shoes,
pulls out the crease in his slacks.

He throws back his shoulders
and strolls into the lot, speaking
and laughing loudly.

His laughter is matched by
the man at the car, who points
and giggles at Bill's head.

Bill's smile falters. His fingers
crawl to his crown and find
his toupee askew.

Bill feels ill, a chill
if you will, as he leaves
the customer in the lot.

No comments:

Post a Comment