barbershop
after Kit Kelen
yellow spots on the mirror
my own reflection sepia
calendar wrinkling behind
picture of a singer, ten years dead
the fan’s breeze
never quite turns the pages
touches the furniture
heads of men waiting
the silver heads chatter
laughter shakes out
there is a gentle hand
on my head
wrinkled skin
passes over my ears
I know these clippers
from my boyhood
twenty years
he’s been tending me
the tiredness still falls away with my hair
in this place where time is still
maybe --
ReplyDeletein this place where time comes still
Jack's pic, my poem, Chrys's poem --- one more and we'll have a barbershop quartet!
ReplyDeleteI love this Chrys
ReplyDelete