2002, poetry, Struck by Lightening

Hair

Each hair on my head
has its own idea of where it should go.
There’s not much left of it now
to clog up the bilge;
‘cause, I took my chef’s knife to it
two days ago in a marina bathroom,
which rocked back and forth
as I sawed
with knife in one hand
and a clump of hair in the other.

When I came out
brushing strains of hair from my cut-off shirt,
a leather skinned woman stared at me,
smiled and said.
-a little hot out there huh kid?

-yeah. I laughed.

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