The Barber Has No Place To Cry Poem by Salvatore Ala
The Barber Has No Place To Cry
Cutting hair at the rest home,
My father was afraid of growing old.
The old have so few hairs
And to shave a lonely face can break your heart:
You never shave the same face twice.
Alone and sick, sickness a blessing,
There were some old people, my father said,
No one ever visited, only the barber.
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
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5/10/2024 9:16:27 AM # 1.0.0.1119
