Prescription

By Larry Duncan

So much depends upon a haircut,
on the scissors,
on the yielding of the years
gathered scalp to tip
in the curls of your hair.

So much depends upon a haircut,
the falling down,
the wind from the open door
that carries the locks
along with the sound passing traffic
to the floor
and the gathering of hair
fanned like frail fingers
around the stem of the chair.

So much depends upon a haircut
and a shave,
on the running of water
and the lather like liquid clouds
over the fields of black and gray.

So much depends upon
the drawing of the blade,
the razor tug of the skin,
the quick slap of fingers
and the contours of your face
beneath the beard.

So much depends upon a haircut
and a shave
that you could almost believe
the face in the mirror,
soft and pink
like when you were a child,
and the quick fit of your arm
around her waist.

You could almost forget.

But so much depends on the wine
in the bottle,
in your glass,
on the floor,
staining your lips,
your teeth

and the crimson smile
that waits in the mirror,
welcoming you to the next morning.

So much depends upon a haircut,
upon the curl of things
and how much wine is in the water
and the way of scissors
and the hungry welcoming
in the wind.

So much depends,
depends on things,
on the frail fingers
and the wine of glass
that bottles your teeth.

Previously appeared in Bank-Heavy Press’s Robo-Book and Crossroads of Stars and White Lightning.