Life Ain’t Always Hair

Ever since I was a little (cub) squirt,
sipping porridge with dad so soon as he walked in from work
Skipping dessert to nuzzle my noggin next to mom’s nightmare proof purse
like a halfback tucking the pigskin just below
the faded number on his shirt,
long before fielding goals of girls in shorter than short skirts
and flirting with disasters who had mastered
the art of running their fingers to
touchdown and around
my coarse brown locks
I was known to be known in town by my super bowl on top…
A cross between a mushroom without the magic
and the sunny side of Allah’s mosque
while on the other
head
my dad had less living hair than a bunny Holocaust.
So you can Imagine,
looking like an extension of Lennon in 1987
wasn’t at the…

(Awaiting Possible Publication)