somewhere along the line
on his knees, chewing on
very stale cheesy threads
spitting out the hard bits
he managed quite well
as he was doing it for already
a long time, his combing action
was supple and in conformity
straightening out all those curlies
that have been living free style
plucking the wild growth, he was
keeping a firm grip on all the fluff
trimming the most and tucking away
the leftovers, sweeping them under
the greens of a mustard moustache
"mustard moustache" © 2014 Rob Knetsch
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem