Only the barber
is amused
by these roots of free verse.
Because we are birds
of the same feather.
Laughing, he splits hairs.
Comb in lips, he squeezes my bangs
so I look like some school girl in barrettes.

Our eyes migrate out the window,
they meet, then dive
into the mirror.
Scissors up his sleeve,
he flutters into rhyme.
In the salon, he knows what to cut
and what to leave
in quatrains on the floor.