Mike Keenan
Special to The Lake Report
He greets me warmly
at the door,
steers me
to the swivel chair,
asks about my health,
wraps me
in white cloth,
removes glasses
from my nose.
Not too much off the top;
It’s cold as hell out there.
I laugh at my own joke
for it’s a barren patch.
There’s little left to mow—
no need for clippers;
scissors slowly snip
and fuss
about my scalp,
as the soft sound of butterflies
dance through the air.
At times like this,
I would change my sex —
dream of bangs
that droop towards my nose,
perhaps a domelike hive
to startle Freud,
black native braids
traced down my back,
corkscrew curls
that dangle like a lure
in the depths
of Veronica Lake,
one eye draped
in silken mystery
daring men
to draw near.
Fernando daubs and shapes
my moustache
with his brush,
rubs tonic
into strands on top,
anoints my brow
with talcum,
then pulls the cape
with flourish—
sends me off
like a general
into war.
I attend
monthly—
my hair
a simple sacrament,
and I will need
this service
one last time
for hair grows
after death,
but even as he sweeps
those scattered
clusters
on the floor,
the threads
unite and intertwine
and grow again in mass.