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spysgrandsonPoems
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
0
Jan 21, 2013
Jan 21, 2013 at 7:50 PM UTC
the barber of Siberia
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
spysgrandson
Written by
spysgrandson
American
Jan 21, 2013
Jan 21, 2013 at 7:50 PM UTC
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