Come, sit down in my chair,
I will chop tiny pieces off you.
I will smile in the mirror
a sad clown smile and show you
the back of your head. I will
take you home with me,
little pieces on the steering wheel
and stuck between the crevasses
of the pleather back seat.
I will find you on my thumb
while eating chicken wings
and smear you on the musty blue
couch cushion.
I will snag you with a condom,
a long blonde strand entangled
in the short black and I will stop.
I will wipe an eyelash
from under my eye and blow
on my finger then notice
it is you stuck to my skin.
I will shower three times a day,
trying to rid myself,
like a masturbatory priest,
of the ugly shards of work
I confront each day.
I will hire a maid and I will help
clean but I will still find you
in the paintings on my wall,
on the dishes and even
on my keys in the morning.
I will wake with you on my tongue
and curse my choice to enlist
in this endless battle, that traps
me into seeing your face
everyday in the mirror
and makes me wear this dead clown
smile. And one day,
I will say, “I’ve had enough!”
and I will take a razor blade,
scalp that pretty hide of yours
and no one will know that I killed you
because I’ve got all your hair covering
my whole life and how much DNA
is that for the cops to uncover.
And when they figure out who it was,
by that time I will have traded
the red white and blue slowly
spinning pole for a Spanish tongue
and a yacht, I will be sailing
around the islands bald and scissorless,
the last barber left to drown
in a sea of endlessly growing hair.
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