The barber pole
starts to slowly
spin.
Sky so dark
a fall downpour
has begun.
The owner staring
past the potted
plants, he’s
too weary
to arrange the comic
books.
Tapered comb,
in one chest pocket,
the scissor’s finger
rest, peaking from
the other. Seeing
through the drenched
window, black
witch, yellow moon,
school
kids painted for
Halloween.
Waiting for the
next crew cut
Its the watch
must
be that causes
time to have
become
so reluctant.

Pull open
the door to the
grammar school
in the morning.
And hear
the gray bell
warning of
the days’ beginning.
For you dwell
on hope the
girl in a plaid
dress is at your
group table.
And what was
learned today,
how once
recess and lunch
are over, is three
p.m. completes
a lasting trinity.
And eventually
a crooked
walk, before the
storefront Iglesias,
witnessing what
I do not. The
spring arrived,
the soft paper
pictures taken
from the walls
of the school
building hall.
Uncontemplated
in the dusty August
on the playground.
Romances and jousts
move
not an inch,
as they stall and
capture the flag
indifferent under
her eye
settling nothing for
the girl in plaid.

RLB 09-15-2022