Outside these three walls,
we assemble and separate.
We’ve gathered up all that was received and given out,
only then to burn it all in the end.

Forget the Barber, the Barista,
the man who borrows heels,
and those who argue that all are wrong in and around the snow.
All know me as the easy mark.

Remember the slaves to the letter
who are washed and cut in red,
Agony and age written well on hands blue,
live life in a mirror, too.

But these words spoken at the seat of the head,
and underneath twin staircases
high, low, and in between your hair,
Suggest that longevity isn’t so bad after all.