I got back from the barber a few minutes ago, and this came out of my head.
The crones, or almost-crones
Giving the haircuts,
are standing at chairs
Marked with the
names of the men (all of them were men)
Who gave haircuts in
these places forty years ago.
But they were not
the first barbers here. In the arms
Of the chairs are ashtrays, now clean,
But still with the
memory of ashes, from when
Everybody smoked at
the barber’s. On the counters
Are products I only
remember seeing
When I was getting
25¢
haircuts, beside men
Who
looked old to me then, although they
Were
decades younger than I am now.
This
floor has had hair swept from men
Who
fought Nazis, or North Koreans,
Or
who could make a living with only
A
strong back and a willing attitude.
The
pictures by the licenses are of grandchildren
Rather
than of lovers and parties of their youth.
And
despite my directions, and the crone’s obedience,
My
hair comes out in a style from a movie
That
was popular twenty years before I was born.
I almost never write poetry (I wrote one about a year ago, and none before that for decades), and I have no idea where this came from.
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