09.(Invading Hair Space) Poem by Ian Kellett

I wouldn’t want to take my fingers for a walk in your hair,
Washed in apple juice,
With orange roots,
And wild life living there.


A farm yard operative would be quite at home with you;
Egg yokes and whites
Dried overnight,
Washed out with milk maids’ dew.


I wouldn’t want to take the local hairdressers’ place,
As patrons laughed,
And the cutters’ craft,
Was stretched to save your face.


Strands hanging freely had been victims of shade,
And been abused,
And long refused
A coverings’ brocade.


I wouldn’t want to be in charge of the payroll for that week,
As time incurred,
And opinions heard,
Were nowhere near their peak.


Another three days into the following were required,
And your bad hair day
Was still at bay,
And nowhere near repaired.


I wouldn’t want to be the manager of your bank account,
Or the man at home
Taking the strain
Of covering its amount.


A strange condition eventually alighted on your head;
A central sheen,
Quite European,
Leaving traces in your bed.


I really wouldn’t want to be the deliverer of these tidings,
With no words forthcoming,
And fingers drumming,
And no place left for hiding.


For what we know now is your parting for sure,
Is not left or right,
But out in plain sight,
And your hair is all over the floor.