Eddie Priest’s Barbershop & Notary

Closed Mondays 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 cut it clean off    I’m through courting and hair only gets in the way