Make the barber
a Southern gay—
a real queer good ol’ boy,
the kind with a pocket knife
tucked in the rhinestone pocket
of his bootcut Westerns,
shirt tucked tight, big belt buckle gleaming.
He'll call me honey,
call me sugar,
tell me I’ve got good hair texture.
Let him keep a photo of Dolly
framed on the mirror,
and let him not try
to take off my glasses
before brushing through my hair.
No comments:
Post a Comment