Eddie Priest’s Barbershop & Notary

is music    is men

off early from work    is waiting

for the chance at the chair

while the eagle claws holes

in your pockets    keeping

time    by the turning

of rusty fans    steel flowers with

cold breezes    is having nothing

better to do    than guess at the years

of hair    matted beneath the soiled caps

of drunks    the pain of running

a fisted comb through stubborn

knots    is the dark dirty low

down blues    the tender heads

of sons fresh from cornrows    all

wonder at losing    half their height

is a mother gathering hair    for good

luck    for a soft wig    is the round

difficulty of ears    the peach

faced boys asking Eddie

to cut in parts and arrows

wanting to have their names read

for just a few days    and among thin

jazz    is the quick brush of a done

head    the black flood around

your feet    grandfathers

stopping their games of ivory

dominoes    just before they reach the bone

yard    is winking widowers announcing

and hair only gets in the way    is the final

spin of the chair    a reflection of

a reflection    that sting of wintergreen

tonic    on the neck of a sleeping snow

haired man    when you realize it is

your turn    you are next