The plumage
of a rain-soaked crow
looks better
than the haircut I got
from a gay old man.
I think he was nervous.
The electric pruner
shook in his hand
as my hair
fell to the hardwood floor.
"I think you should go to a barber." He said.
"Yeah." I replied.
Two months have passed,
and I still haven't gone
to a barber.
No one seems to care.
I haven't heard anyone say:
"Your hair looks worse
than a soggy crow."
No one has asked:
"Who cut your hair? A nervous, gay old man?"
so I'm in no hurry
to get to a barber.
Someone did ask about the rent,
which got me to move
right away.
I jammed my clothes
into a bag
and walked to the bus stop
across the street from the apartment building.
The bus arrived
after about ten minutes.
After taking a seat
I noticed a fat chick
reading a copy
of Brautigan's: The Pill
Versus the Springhill Mine Disaster.
We began to talk,
and soon it was decided
that I would join her in the
cheap hotel where she was staying.
We got a bottle of Southern Comfort,
because that's
what she liked.
When we got to her room she started
to take things
out of her large purse.
The bottle of baby oil
caught my eye.
I wondered what the
good people
were doing this
afternoon.
Most
were probably
working
or getting an education
of some kind.
Boy, I thought;
how easy it could have been
for me to have become
one of them.