The Barber

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 scattered over the back seat.
I will find you on my thumb
while eating chicken wings
and smear you on the cushion
of the blue musty couch.
I will snag you with a condom,
a long blonde strand entangled
in the short black and I will stop.
I will shower three times a day,
trying to rid myself,
like a masturbatory priest,
of the ugly shards of work
I am confronted with 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 live with you for twenty years,
fighting a little war,
cursing my own choice to enlist
and cursing even more, the bills
that trap me into seeing your face
everyday in the mirror
and make me wear
that dead clown smile and one day,
I swear I will say, “I’ve had enough!”
and I will take my 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.
I will have by that time 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.