no better than unladylike fingers
pressing grease into magazine pages,
men pother their thinning hair
finger flicked like bed sheets
over gallant shoulders,
imprisoned under canvas
and cotton hats unwashed
and static.
at home, the dogs tongue
my father's dirtied crown
three decades forged
and never disturbed,
hairless from the day
my memory's kept him,
though grey whiskers still
horseshoe at the base of his neck.
No comments:
Post a Comment