1st edit; thanks to tecktaks input (not sure if repercussion works in the 4th)
Looking through up-turned eyes;
a middle-aged reflection.
Smocked and prepped, chin on chest,
riding the barber’s chair.
I succumb to the calming snip-snip-snip.
Sharp steel blades
dance and coldly clip
a receding hairline.
“One size fits all”
Saturday evening, haircut night.
A chair and fifteen nervous boys
carapaced in government-green
of a painted brick corridor.
“Who’s first?”
No one moves; blunt clippers leave scars.
The finger fires at me; I edge forward.
Better to volunteer when the finger points.
Less painful than any repercussion.
Tin bowl on head, I snigger with fear.
A knee connects to my ribcage.
Winded, I double up. The bowl falls.
In silence, the pain wraps itself
around black size tens.
Eventually i complain in anger.
Men running, shouting.
Feet and fists help me to sleep;
thin sheets cover, never protect.
Don’t cry, never cry, never ever cry.
“Does Sir have something in his eye?”
this is an older one i hurriedly reworked
Looking through up-turned eyes;
a middle-aged reflection.
Smocked and prepped, chin on chest,
riding the barber’s chair.
I succumb to the calming snip-snip-snip.
Sharp steel blades
dance and coldly clip
a receding hairline.
“One size fits all”
Saturday evening, haircut night.
A chair and fifteen nervous boys
carapaced in government-green
of a painted brick corridor.
“Who’s first?”
No one moves; blunt clippers leave scars.
The finger fires at me; I edge forward.
Better to volunteer when the finger points.
Less painful than any repercussion.
Tin bowl on head, I snigger with fear.
A knee connects to my ribcage.
Winded, I double up. The bowl falls.
In silence, the pain wraps itself
around black size tens.
Eventually i complain in anger.
Men running, shouting.
Feet and fists help me to sleep;
thin sheets cover, never protect.
Don’t cry, never cry, never ever cry.
“Does Sir have something in his eye?”
Quote:Original:
Looking through up-turned eyes;
a middle aged reflection.
Smocked and prepped, chin on chest,
riding the barber’s chair.
I succumb to the calming snip-snip.
Sharp steel blades
dance and coldly clip
a receding hairline
“One size fits all”
Saturday evening, haircut night.
A chair and fifteen nervous boys
carapaced in the institutionalised green
of a brick painted corridor.
“Who’s first?”
No one moves; blunt clippers leave scars.
The finger fires at me; I edge forward.
Better to volunteer when the finger points.
Less painful than fist or belt.
Tin bowl on head, I snigger with fear.
A knee connects to my ribcage.
Winded, I double up. The bowl falls.
In silence, the pain wraps itself
around black size tens.
Eventually i complain in anger.
Men running, shouting.
Feet and fists help me to sleep;
thin sheets cover, never protect.
Don’t cry, never cry, never ever cry.
“Does Sir have something in his eye?”
this is an older one i hurriedly reworked