the candy cane sign  
is gray with frost  
its spiraled dance
stopped years before
the old man died    
he, the emperor of hair,
meant to get it repaired  
like all good intentions
and the clipped hair
that got swept away  
day by day,
hour by hour,
minute by
m o m  e n t o u s    
m o n o t o n o u s
minute  
the cutting,
the sweeping
punctuated by
the clang of the register
the hardy laugh at a racial joke  
the passing of a borrowed smoke  
and the buzzing silences
in between
when I would watch and wonder
what spell he was under  
in his royal white regalia  
chopping and chatting away
(at eyeless and earless heads I thought)  
until I would sit in his chair  
and escape the gulag of my life  
with his ponderous questions
about  
feather light skies  
heavyweight jabbing  
the “old lady gabbing”  
the engine
in my “shrimp nip” car  
and how very far
I would go
when I rose from his
leather and chrome throne  
and once again be on my own  
with hair a bit shorter
and life a bit neater  
for a minuscule dot in time  
I would not even remember
when I thought of his implacable place
in the cold past