Cheap Haircut

Sweet Tyrannosaurus! Was there ever a more apt
occasion for your chicken foot to land like a piano
right outside the salon? The sky is dim, the sun kidnapped

in a cloud gag, the shop bell going like wanno,
the window cleaner lathering, whistling, ukulele
notably absent. High time for a volcano

to blast us with death-confetti, Nancy Archer to coolly
lever off the roof like the hinged lid of a chest,
or you and a triceratops to brawl really

viciously, one of you belting the other head-first
into the building. But all the action going on here
is between the brave stylist and the trogg-beast

of my hair, the cosmos, the dog of my hair,
and she’s losing. Damn, Jess! Where are you now?
You struck out like a wolf spider, tamed, with flair,

the fright-nest. This trainee’s scared to dig in and plough.
She’s a youngster in a war. The field is strewn with bodies.
Her standard-bearer’s down, and crow upon crow

gather in the branches overhead. Adders
of water from the spray bottle tremble down my cheek.
The hair keeps coming – her grip shifts – she readies

herself, then nearly Van Goghs me with quick
lunges. Oh, bleak terrain, oh dinosaurs,
oh drawbridge rising, heart at stake,

oh battleground salon, its tunnel of mirrors
and savaged-bird-heads full of arrows!