Haircut

A haircut signals a new phase, like the moon,
each time she cuts even just a trim.
What all happened in between time
simply falls away, scattering like days
in clumps on the floor. I triumphantly tear
off two pages of my calendar which in my
stupor I had forgotten to turn. Now is time to return
to rhythm, keeping time with monthly
hair cuts as regular as menses, always the same way
always the same time, always the same
stylist who will ask me
how are the kids
how is your work
how would you like your hair
how's your garden
I respond with originality
each time although month to month
the answers blur together in my
effort to grow time, like hair
rich beyond the power of any conditioner. Time
to stretch time to kill
time to savor time to use
I would be lost without my hair.

Moments as These

You strangely knew I was there.
Did you not? You abandoned, gentle
spirit, at peace finally, flailing arms stilled,
aching body now relaxed. I sit by
your side, feeling like an empty chair
although both you and I are present
to the quiet. With reticence, I re-
fasten your hair with the Slovakian
clasp you wore so proudly. I say the Our
Father in your native tongue, mixing up
only the final words and no one to
correct me. You are unusually quiet
I note and then remember you are dead.
The clock clangs, the cuckoo chirps.
The hands tick. I check the back of
my hands. Yes, still splotched pink
like yours. With relief, I shed a tear,
my only one this whole long night.
It lands on my splotched hands. I lift them
up, in utter praise. For moments such
as these.

Poem: Wherever the sun falls

Wherever the sun fell,
that's where she would go,
the old dog now lying under
the roof awning, yawning. The
sun slants to paint her back in sunshine
stripes. There are children in the backyard,
a rectangular plot against the alley.
Compost reeks of rabbit scat and
garlic tips. Dandelions
sprout large tufts of hair
in the lawn.
It's hard to hear the
screech of the jays against the noisy
play. Evening is falling, a blanket
around them, twinkling a glow.
You know, those times which
seem to last forever. One day for
a child is a lifetime for their elders.
It goes on and on, pulling taffy
until it multiplies. I eat the half
to be definitive. I am the
child. I am the elder. I am
the dog, streaks of sun still
warming my back.