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POEM

Haircut

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Out on the back porch I’m reminded

of all the twenty-dollar Super Cuts

I long ago disparaged.

Then a decade of pricey trims

that kept your balding pate in style.

Now it’s me you’re left with.

You stand a step below to level us

and explain: start at the nape, you say,

slowly so it doesn’t yank. Fade

to the top, then bottom up with the 2-blade.

I hold the taloned guard, flip

the tiny switch that makes it quiver.

Someone in your younger years pulled

her fingers through your hair —

With no one else to pass this way,

we leave the trimmings where they fall

and go inside for a hand of cards.

The birds are wild now, scissoring

through the April air. No doubt

they’ll find this treasure.

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