Wednesday, September 22, 2010

The Hairdresser and the Mortician.

Two alike, their hand's work
dressing, in imitating breaths
their customers: the living
and, the dead; coming
through the doors, seeking
dignity, cut and shaped
out of life's split ends,
faces frayed, contoured in lines
grown tired of smiling; now,
a freshly shaved chin-up, looks
like a man wooing a first kiss,
expectantly...

The day closes, laid out
with respect reflecting in eyes'
gratitude.

3 comments:

  1. I would guess this ode to hairdressers and morticians stems from the struggle that grandpa Block is going through. The hairdresser up at Piedmont does night work down at BML funeral home. She told me that helping the recently deceased person to look their best in death is the most rewarding part of her job.

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  2. Actually, it began thinking about Oliver (man on my bus who is a hairdresser) and Papa. But yes, Grandpa Block was prominent throughout my working of words...

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  3. love the poem and the additional comments, Ladies.

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