It's dark and lovely outside
And my hair is combed.
Two-thirds races right and back, over the scalp
While the complacent third
sprints past my ear
(a few of the athletes stumble on the crest)
running from the sunny, mid-day voices
of visitors, visiting, dying alone
trying to get through to the brain.
I don't know why I took the time
to feel the bristles of my brother's greasy comb
Tickle my scalp and soothe me to sophistication
I didn't even plan to meet a handsome woman from a party
or a bearded ruffian
looking for a counterpart
I just went to work
and bathed in the
sickly deafening applause
Of a proud ladle, (blood-red gummy flecks on his chin)
and sauce and flour.
"Your hair looks good", she said
And they screamed.