Saturday Afternoon
Horst is a dapper manBrillcreamed pompadour
White starched
Barber's smock side buttoned
His theater
Plate glass spotless overlooking
The town park
The frames and door painted green too many times
The lockset gleaming from obsessive Brasso
He is master here
A conductor
His choir the clientele
Their voices basso profundo to countertenor
Vary as the day progresses
the latest news the libretto
Always in flux
His opus moves from furious contention to soft introspection
Rhythm, time and improvisation at his whim
Drawing out dissonance and harmony
Directing with comb and scissor in fluid graceful gestures
Never missing a lock or nicking a painfully exposed ear
occasionally punctuating an intermesso
With swashbuckeled stroke of a cutthroat razor
While young boys sit rapt in awe on the red leather window seat
Anxiously waiting for their turn
The huge porcelain silver throne
His podium
Poetry by josephus
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Written on 2012-02-13 at 19:00
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Lawrence Beck |
ken d williams |
countryfog |