Brush Or Comb? Poem by Daniel Y.
Brush Or Comb?
The woman of devotion to
the morning face applied.
The porcupine instrument
yanks your hair in tufts and sheaves;
then it falls comatose on your bathroom counter.
It hides behind a million ointments.
Your price paid for ridiculous fashion.
I am dumbfounded to explain why it is
that old men are the bald ones.
When feathered handles
stored in pockets
but crease and part their
low-bang cuts.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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9/19/2024 12:59:26 PM # 1.0.0.1119
