Whether waved in noir or Viking blond or
whiskey finished with war hammer
curls or earth toned as the ground on which
every step ahead treads heavier than
the tracks we leave behind, the hairs that
drop from our boyhood heads are pure.
Those same strands, once soldier strong, now
let dull their lustrous blades, shade
in future grays until spring-soft fairgrounds
linger where battles once were waged
while all our Delilah-shaped carousels go
round no more; they, too,
are swept swiftly away by thick broom bristles
while we are aftershaved, powdered
and forgotten except in the one barber’s shop
that welcomes us all for a snip and shave
no matter how few hairs prevail on our seasoned
scalps; its eternal pole spins ad infinitum
ready to restore every new day that rises in our
east to settle in the west.
Every Monday, GJC will be sharing a poem from John T. Trigonis, a local JC Heights resident, poet, writer, and coffee aficionado, in our Monday Musings.