he always rested on mondays. now monday's here to stay.
so cover the mirrors, make blunt the scissors' blade.
who'd let another's fingers lather and rinse and knead
while clouds of shampoo gathered? who could command his suite
of bottles and perfumes, massage in essential oils,
with such a slender hand? who'll toe the pedals,
allow the blow-dryers' organ to roar, who'll open the flues?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem