I’ve been to the barber
Beyond the cosmos where such thing exist
In white hanging light through Witch Hazel clouds
Where lidless cylinders hold scissors at ready.
And there is in the distance of mirrors within mirrors
And bruised and battered hardwood chairs,
Tiny tables with scattered tattered magazines
And comics for the kids
Who are lifted up screaming upon the strange saddle
That balances across the arms of the glistening porcelain chair.
The man is named Tony, they all are named Tony
Except for Blackie and oddly enough Clarence
And how is a Clarence in the tonsorial trade?
He flaps off a sheet with a shake and sweeps up the hair.
Or strops a straight razor on a strap beneath the arm.
He ties a tissue about the neck of the customer
He warms up a towel
He dusts off a shoulder
He sprinkles powder from the bristles of a feathery broom.
I’ve been to a barber
In some Biblical sense when men were still men
And Delilah’s were barred from the tools of the trade.
I witnessed the pig-snouted brushes drowning in cups
When not surfing the white caps across seas of chins.
I’ve passed by the poles of dying past history
Spinning encased in glass shells to signal the trade
Of multi-talented gents.
White stripe for the shaving and cutting of hair
Red stripe for bloodleaching, the surgery, dentistry there
And all of it gone to the prissiness of the salon.