The Man with the Fresh Haircut
He strolled through the door for a snip
and left a conqueror.
The man with the fresh haircut—
don’t pick a fight with him.
The stylist froze in wonder.
A customer fell to her knees.
The man with the fresh haircut
made mirrors weep
.
He turned his head to the east.
He turned his head to the west.
Each hair lined up like rain
and knew just where to fall.
You can’t believe a baldy,
or make sense of a shaggy man.
But someone who’s been to the scissors—
I’ll listen to his dreams.
Take all the cocaine and burn it,
the pornographer’s scrapbook too.
Drink the sweet black coffee
of the man with the fresh haircut.
The couple next door is shouting,
every name in the book, and more,
but the man with the fresh haircut
will have them kissing tonight.
Let a hurricane howl toward the city—
he’s in no hurry to leave.
He closes the eye of the storm.
His hair stays neat and dry.
Though they suck all the oil from the sand
or haul the last cod from the deep,
I will not go without,
or doubt the might of his cut.
He parts his hair like Moses
parts the unwalkable sea,
and the man with the fresh haircut
has laid his comb on me.