Methamorphosis Of Hair Poem by Michael Witkowski

Her hair brush grew overnight
into a wide flat umbrella
Her force slid off her brush
and into her tongue

Strictly rigid she looked-
her hair brush- but alas
i felt the home fire with her
we missed the coffee

machine's readiness
a mile of pats she beamed at
but now she poured force
into her brawn and mouth

we were lost in our
mutual voice and faces
but now she practises her
peremptive tongue lash

around me, around us the mob
rumours she receives mobbing
for the uncivility in which she rebuffs
attention of others

but i need a warm object
outside of me that feels
and acts as if it were inside
of me- not a strange heap