Yard Sale of Thoughts

Powerlines
purr like hairdryers,
brown tufted feathers fly,
a turnstile,
denial.

"Who clipped your wings? You's a bald bird," the barber says.

"He's not so bad. He was a good guy," I reply,

but time flies in aimless circles
like the silver chair swivels
stripes that fall 
or rise if you're in denial.

With both feet on the banister
naked skin like a salamander,
dizzy for life.

The woman in the mirror says, "I'm done with you.
I'm on pursuit for something new,
something handsome."

I am not alone 
other soldiers sit on leather thrones.
We patrol by zone
along a soaking tower
smelling of testosterone
above tiles of blue herringbone.

"I"m here to witness 
the crucifixion of another cowlick," I laugh.
"You got the wisdom of a widow's peek," he speaks,

snipping with his words,
a pair of golden clippers.

The weight of the world 
off a my shoulders,
summer finds me grown.
The bottom half of my head
white as alum stone,
born again 
with bangs and slippers.

©2024 | K.F. Hartless

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©2024 | K.F. Hartless

Cover Art: Albert Lynch’s Jeanne d’Arc (1903), Wikimedia Commons

I will likely continue trimming this one, but I hope you enjoy it even as it continues to find its shape.

Cheers and Sheers! Katie