this town

i,
steel in the raw,
am
forged and welded in
placental trainyard
am
riveted to light
at the end of a tunnel
am
hurtling forward
at full steam
it seems
the only way into this town
is out
i,
quiet little engine that
could move on,
am idling
twenty-five years
am
at the station
that's been here
a hundred five more than i,
rusting locomotive,
am
built for more than
round town transit
am
yearning for
big city outs and ins it
seems the only way out of this town
is through

the hairdresser's plight

i cut hair

on people

i cut hair on the highest points
of people
at their lowest

i massage the scalps
of neglected women
and listen
as they remember
the last time their husbands
touched them

i tell them
they are beautiful for

i see them beautiful
as they walk in

in my chair
i make them
(literally)
beautiful

i've inserted
(literally)
billions of
bobby-pins into the hair of
high school sweethearts
whose crushes
finally asked them to a dance

i listen
to hope
and fear

i fear this masterpiece
i've made
will fall down tonight
in the hands of
some boasting boy i buzzed
earlier today

"i hope
you have fun tonight"
i say

i hope he takes
the advice i gave to
see her beautiful
the way

i see them beautiful
as they walk in

i make them
beautiful

i make
widow ladies
in their eighties
never blue but
blonde
red
brunette
beauties

i listen
as they remember
the last time their husbands
touched them

i tell them
they are beautiful
i see them beautiful
as they walk in
in my chair
i make them
beautiful

i make them beautiful with
bobby pins
brushes
combs
scissors
and my own hands

i make them beautiful
with dryers
and dyes

time goes bye...

hair grows like
late day shadows
toward the long dark night
of the soul

wind blows out styles
blows doubt into minds

and they return
weary
teased
limp and limping

i tell them
"you're beautiful" for
i believe them beautiful
as they walk in

in my chair
i make them
beautiful

and send them out again

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